APRIL AWAKENING. $1 



or four mimic blasts at first are sounded, then 

 the tune is continued to the end in a series of 

 crotchets, minims and trills, which no human 

 performer can imitate. Their instruments are 

 louder than those of the song sparrows, yet their 

 chant is much the same. Indeed there appears 

 to be a similarity of chirp and twitter in all 

 species of these plainly dressed birds. They 

 seem to have many words in common. As vari- 

 ous races of men pronounce nearly alike special 

 words, so this group has attained, by inheritance, 

 certain accents and inflections that, no doubt, 

 once belonged to a remote ancestor. The swamp 

 sparrow tells us in his song, how closely he is 

 related to Melospiza, and the bay-wing bunting 

 gives us a brief genealogical history at his vesper 

 service. Yet each of these birds has variations 

 peculiarly its own. Good music runs in the blood 

 of the finch family. 



The trim, clean-cut figure of a pigeon hawk 

 gracefully sailing "head on" toward a tall beech 

 near where I am sitting, readily attracts my 

 attention. Perhaps a minute before the bird had 

 made up his mind to alight on this tree. If so, we 

 were probably the only creatures on earth, at the 

 time, that were regarding it. How easily he lifts 

 himself on his pliant wings and settles down on 

 a branch, as if he were only a bunch of feathers 

 lodged there by the breeze. After fixing his long 



