IN THE HEMLOCKS 55 
to dislodge her. Seeing me, he drops like a feather 
on a slender twig and in a moment both are gone. 
Then, as if by a preconcerted signal, the throats are 
all atune. I lie on my back with eyes half closed, 
and analyze the chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches, 
and flycatchers; while, soaring above all, a little 
withdrawn and alone rises the divine soprano of the 
hermit. That richly modulated warble proceeding 
from the top of yonder birch, and which unpracticed 
ears would mistake for the voice of the scarlet tana- 
ger, comes from that rare visitant, the rose-breasted 
grosbeak. It is astrong, vivacious strain, a bright 
noonday song, full of health and assurance, indi- 
cating fine talents in the performer, but not genius. 
As I come up under the tree he casts his eye down 
at me, but continues his song. This bird is said to 
be quite common in the Northwest, but he is rare 
in the Eastern districts. His beak is disproportion- 
ately large and heavy, like a huge nose, which 
slightly mars his good looks; but Nature has made 
it up to him ina blush rose upon his breast, and 
the most delicate of pink linings to the under side 
of his wings. His back is variegated black and 
white, and when flying low the white shows con- 
spicuously. If he passed over your head, you would 
note the delicate flush under his wings. 
That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hem- 
lock, glowing like a live coal against the dark back- 
ground, seeming almost too brilliant for the severe 
northern climate, is his relative, the scarlet tanager. 
I occasionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and 
