Song Seasons of Three Carolina 
Birds. 
BY LEVERETT M. LOOMIS. 
Curator of the Department of Ornithology of the California 
Academy of Sciences. 
“*—_the time of the singing of birds is come.” 
()" all the birds inhabiting upper South 
Carolina, the Carolina Wren is almost 
the only one that may be said to sing 
the whole year round. Other birds begin to 
sing as soon as the spring side of the year is 
reached. Usually this is in February. The 
song season in all lasts at least until after the 
nesting is over. Some, as the Field Sparrow, 
continue on into autumn. Others, as the Mock- 
ingbird, after an interval of silence have a sec- 
ond song period. So it is that the resident 
birds of the up country of South Carolina, as 
to the duration of their singing, fall into three 
classes: those that have but a single song sea- 
son and are silent after the period of nesting, 
those that have a second one following this 
period, and those that sing all the year. 
About the first of February there issues from 
the plum thickets and other lesser shrubbery of 
the open, a great clattering of Sparrows. As 
the days advance this babel of song takes form, 
resolving into the familiar notes of the Field 
Sparrow as usually heard in Northern climes. 
The variations of song so characteristic of this 
bird in the Southern country are not prominent 
until later. With the progress of spring Field 
Sparrows bear no inconspicuous part in the 
general chorus. Midsummer comes with its 
burning heat and most birds are silent, still the 
Field Sparrow sings with unabated persistency, 
and so variously, too, as would sound strangely 
to Northern ears. I have sometimes been puz- 
zled to know whether some of their perform- 
ances were not uttered by Prairie Warblers, so 
nearly were they like the quaint ditties of that 
bird. More than once, with the bird in plain 
sight, have I resorted to my gun so as to make 
sure that my eyes and ears had not deceived 
me. By the middle of September only occa- 
sional, half-hearted songs are heard, and the 
season is over, having lasted more than seven 
months. The remarkably mild weather of De- 
cember, 1889, and January, 1890, had an in- 
teresting effect upon the Field Sparrows, arous- 
ing them to song nearly two months ahead of 
the ordinary time. 
It is a rare thing to hear Mockingbirds sing 
in the upper country during December and 
January. It is only when the weather has been 
very mild for some time that they are awakened 
to song—but song without heart, without em- 
phasis. Usually the first season opens about 
THE NIDOLOGIST 45 
the beginning of February, sometimes a little 
earlier, and sometimes a little later, as the 
weather may be. As spring advances, and as 
others appear from farther south, they become 
more and more conspicuous as musicians. Be- 
fore the end of April the whole open country is 
occupied. ‘The first season continues unabated 
to July, even the serenades in moonless as 
well as moonlight nights. Long wet spells 
tend to lengthen out the season, singing con- 
tinuing with variety and effect nearly to the 
close of the month. The habit of singing in 
the night is more common among birds than is 
generally supposed, occurring chiefly when the 
nuptial passion is at its height. 
““And smale foweles maken melodye 
That slepen al the nyght with open eye— 
So priketh hem nature in hir courages.” 
Often in the early morning hours when I have 
been camping out has the stillness been broken 
by the song of the Field Sparrow. 
The second song period of the Mockingbird 
begins about the first week in September. In 
the interval between the first and second period 
there may sometimes be heard a curious musi- 
cal performance. ‘The first time it reached my 
ear I thought it came from a bird a long way 
off—at least a quarter of a mile away—it was 
so soft, so far away—suppressed I wrote it in 
my journal at the time, and no word better de- 
scribes it. The singer was just over my head, 
concealed in the heart of the foliage of a great 
hickory. He sat there motionless, his song 
complete as at other times, but almost in a 
whisper. I thought of what Richard Grant 
White wrote of the przma donna who sang an 
operatic air in all its perfection, but which was 
heard only by the ear almost touched by the 
lips of the great singer. Every summer I hear 
this pianissimo singing, and always from the 
heart of thickly foliaged trees. How different 
is this quiet demeanor from that of the earlier 
season, when observation is challenged from the 
most exalted pinnacle of the neighborhood, 
when the musician sings as he flies, or bounds 
aloft from his perch in ecstasy of song. My 
ear has sometimes caught the sound of this 
subdued vocalization at the opening of the first 
season, at which time the Brown Thrasher 
and Cardinal are inclined to sing in the same 
manner. 
One gray February afternoon I heard a Car- 
dinal singing in this sotto voce style from the 
depth of a cedar bush. When I stopped to 
listen, he raised his notes, and after a moment 
came out upon an adjoining oak twig and 
whistled in a strong, clear voice, as I stood a 
few steps away. I left him thus, and returning 
a few minutes later found he was gone. It was 
