SPRING ARRIVAL OF THE BIRDS. 41 
bars in different keys. Longfellow must have had in 
his mind the wood thrush: 
‘Whose household words are sung in many keys, 
Sweeter than instruments of man’s ere caught; 
Whose habitation in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to Heaven.” 
The wood thrush, artist that he is, is partial to 
the upland groves and wooded hillsides. He also seems 
to love best forests in which beech and maple predom- 
inate. He is occasionally heard in the city, but at such 
times the voice is generally a surprise; it comes to the 
ear unexpectedly, and the listener is at a loss to place 
the singer. It is like meeting an old acquaintance 
whose face one knows so well, but for the instant can- 
not place. Then follows the delight at the recognition. 
A year ago I heard one sing on Niagara Square, 
in the heart of the city. It was in a spreading elm 
opposite the “Fillmore House.” As I stopped to listen, 
several other pedestrians came along and halted, also to 
hear or get a sight of the stranger. This bird of gentle 
breeding seemed in no way abashed at the sight of the 
increased audience, and continued to sing until the 
barking of a dog under the tree disturbed him. One 
astonished and delighted listener asked me if “it was 
really a nightingale.” I remember another surprise 
that haunted my mind pleasantly for days after. Early 
one morning, while sitting on the wall beside the wind- 
ing and picturesque road that connects Cliff Avenue 
with the wooded portion of Forest Lawn, I was startled 
by the gurgling trill, then the clear “chil-a-dee-de,” 
