154 Bird -Lore 1 



twitter, remarkably pleasing, and suggestive of winter days, and not in- 

 frequently a White-throat will join the chorus with his silvery tremolo, 

 given in a tenderness not suggested by the clear, brave whistle of summer. 

 His common note, though, is a sharp tsee-ep, not- unlike the call of the 

 Brown Creeper. 



The month is mainly one of concert music. In the swamps the Rusty 

 Blackbirds carry on a pleasant bubbling undercurrent of quaint melody, 

 which always brings to my mind a squeaky wheelbarrow pushed along by 

 the edge of a noisy brook. With them are lingering Redwings, who rarely 

 utter their rich songs ; it is remarkable how many pleasant memories this 

 simple phrase will recall. Goldfinches in large parties ripple among the 

 asters. They have a perpetual overflow of sweet notes, which, heard from 

 half a hundred, is wonderfully effective. The Purple Finch alights on a 

 savin top to drop several rich, sweet measures, and then is off again till his 

 flinty tip is lost in the distance. 



If the year is one when the country is invaded by northern birds, the 

 plaintive whistles of Pine Grosbeaks, and the kimp notes of Crossbills will 

 be constantly falling from overhead, or mingling with the calls of Chicka- 

 dees and Kinglets among the spruces, where the birds are busy with the 

 evergreen seeds. The fresh ' phcebe ' call of the Chickadee is a heart- 

 warming bit of song, which I think may be heard every month in the year. 



A not infrequent and thoroughly enjoyable surprise is to hear the song 

 of the Ruby-crowned Kinglet during the month. It is not nearly so 

 perfect as in spring; indeed the little fellow seems never to reach the 

 beautiful climax of his song. He starts with all his vigorous preliminary 

 chattering, gets to perfection his purring ripples, but, sadly, seems incapable 

 of giving the final hert-her-wee notes. I have heard but one Kinglet who 

 omitted this valuable addition in the spring. Certainly his musical educa- 

 tion had been shamefully neglected. 



But the most wonderful singer of the month is the Fox Sparrow. Or- 

 dinarily, he may be said to be silent in fall, except for his call-notes, but 

 when there is a large migration of the handsome birds we may often enjoy 

 the thrill of their clear, mellow, sadly sweet songs from the midst of some 

 bare thicket. 



