the winter wren. The kinglet's song has a ca- 

 dence unlike any other, reminding one of water 

 murmuring underground, and for some reason a 

 classic suggestion, as of faun and satyr. It is more 

 truly sylvan than any other — sylvan in the old 

 Greek sense, so elusive and shy it is, so mysterious. 

 Such voices give no evidence of self-conscious- 

 ness; they are as impersonal as the winds or as 

 the murmuring stream. But with the catbird, the 

 thrasher and the mocking-bird, pre-eminently vo- 

 calists, there is a set and declamatory method which 

 has the appearance of affeftation. Their songs are 

 brilliant and elaborately , phrased, but they lack 

 spontaneity, and in listening to them one wishes 

 they had put their powers to a different use. The 

 thrasher is particularly self-conscious and stagey, 

 and yet he has a glorious voice. No bird has a 

 finer quality of tone than he shows in some of his 

 notes — clear, mellow, vibratory as in the voices of 

 really great tenors. It is that quality which Na- 

 ture alone supplies and no cultivation nor perfec- 

 tion of method can give. When he speaks to his 

 mate in an undertone his voice would melt a heart 

 of stone. There is a time, however, when the 

 catbird rises above any suspicion of self-conscious- 



49 



