Impressions of the Voices of Tropical Birds loi 



and for an hour we were subjected to as thorough a wetting as could be desired, 

 and most of our efforts went toward keeping our specimens from getting 

 soaked. After a time, however, it stopped almost as suddenly as it had 

 begun, and through the breaking sky the level rays of a declining sun red- 

 dened the straight columns of the pines and glistened from the wet and 

 shining foliage of the broad-leaved trees. Suddenly, and so Robin-like that 

 I was for a moment quite moved, there commenced a chorus of delicious and 

 brilliant singing that I have no similar recollection of. It was from the 

 "Blue Thrasher," Mimocichla plumbea, and for a few breathless moments 

 we were carried into an enchanted realm that it is still a joy to remember. 

 The music was no less scintillating than its clean and glistening setting. 



It is perhaps too bad, and a sign of limitation that we should hesitate to 

 admit, that the songs that please us most are apt to be those that perfect or 

 glorify songs we already know at home. It may even not be true; but I think, 

 nevertheless, that no birdsongs have ever given me a more welcome turn of 

 heart than some of these tropical Thrushes, which carry farther the lovely 

 qualities of intonation so richly present in our Hermit Thrush's song. The 

 group known as Catharus, true Thrushes, haunt the moist, ferny mountain 

 forests, and from the quiet fragrance of these silent places come the exquisite 

 silvery bell-tones of their songs. They sing from the ground or very near it, 

 and never have I heard them lift their voices high. But their tone is more 

 pure, their delivery more perfect, and their chaste cadences more prismatic 

 and rich, than those of any other Thrush I know, and I should find it hard 

 to pick the slightest rift within the lute. It is upon these tender, ineffably 

 sweet fiutings that I base my concept of a perfect bird-song. 



THE SONG SPARROW 



Before the purple crocus dares to fling 

 The snow aside, and bare its golden heart, 

 Before the boldest bee has found a mart, 



Or flecked with pollen rich his veined wing. 



There comes a wistful voice, thrilled through with spring, 

 And joy, and hope, and quaint unconscious art, 

 As though an angel, doubtful of his part. 



Should lift beseeching eyes, and pray, and sing. 



The frost's white fret-work lingers on the pane, 

 And hunger makes the startled rabbit bold; 

 But not scant fare, nor winter's latest sting, 



Can silence this brown minstrel's dauntless strain. 

 Supreme in faith, as in his voice of gold. 

 The truest-hearted lover of the spring. —Laura F. Beall. 



