96 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 



their nests. But one day, when the young fledg- 

 lings had fluttered from their home, and the par- 

 ents had become less shy and flew out from the 

 thick-leaved shrubbery, so that the true color and 

 form were plainly seen, I found that I had been 

 completely deceived. ^ My precious bird was none 

 other than the female Maryland yellow-throat. 



The declining sun lengthens the shadows of the 

 spires of the evergreens on the eastward slopes 

 with many a streak and dash — a map of the clos- 

 ing day. Shadows are deepening in the City of 

 the Birds. On brook and copse avenues, are 

 many cathedrals, and the vesper services have 

 already begun. A mellow note wavers down 

 from the leafy gallery, as you walk along the 

 carpeted aisles and take your seat. It is a musical 

 celebrity who sings to-night, Turdus Fuscescens, 

 the star tenor of the woods. There is some- 

 thing in his nature which makes him love the 

 quiet twilight hour and give it voice. Listen 

 now to the elevating, soul-calming music. Plu-re- 

 re-e-e-e, sphere-r, sphere-e-e, ale-c-or, cher, cheery. 

 The pure, sweet tone is the very expression of 

 shady woodland ways, of trusting joy, content- 

 ment and peace. His fine trills, which usually 

 prelude his hymn, and which are always sprink- 

 led, as it were, between the words, remind you of 

 waterdrops falling in echoing cisterns, of tiny 

 bells of the purest metal, tinkling in the trees, or 



