56 WAKE-ROBIN 
know no stronger contrast in nature. I almost fear 
he will kindle the dry limb on which he alights. 
He is quite a solitary bird, and in this section seems 
to prefer the high, remote woods, even going quite 
to the mountain’s top. Indeed, the event of my 
last visit to the mountain was meeting one of these 
brilliant creatures near the summit, in full song. 
The breeze carried the notes far and wide. He 
seemed to enjoy the elevation, and I imagined his 
song had more scope and freedom than usual. When 
he had flown far down the mountain-side, the breeze 
still brought me his finest notes. In plumage he 
is the most brilliant bird we have. The bluebird 
is not entirely blue; nor will the indigo-bird bear a 
close inspection, nor the goldfinch, nor the summer 
redbird. But the tanager loses nothing by a near 
view; the deep scarlet of his body and the black 
of his wings and tail are quite perfect. This is his 
holiday suit; in the fall he becomes a dull yellowish 
green, — the color of the female the whole season. 
One of the leading songsters in this choir of the 
old Barkpeeling is the purple finch or linnet. He 
sits somewhat apart, usually on a dead hemlock, and 
warbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finest 
songsters, and stands at the head of the finches, as 
the hermit at the head of the thrushes. His song 
approaches an ecstasy, and, with the exception of the 
winter wren’s, is the most rapid and copious strain 
to be heard in these woods. It is quite destitute 
of the trills and the liquid, silvery, bubbling notes 
that characterize the wren’s; but there runs through 
