portance. Some bright morning in March there 

 comes to the listening ear the song of the purple 

 finch — a wild sweet strain with the abandon of 

 gipsy music, which thrills with its very wildness 

 and unrestraint. Anon Phoebe arrives with dry 

 little voice and familiar swoop after the first incau- 

 tious fly. 



Every season has its characteristic song. More 

 than all others is the voice of the hyla, essentially 

 springlike and to be associated with no other time. 

 For several days there has been an occasional des- 

 ultory chirp from the woods, when of a sudden, 

 some clear evening, there comes out of the stillness 

 that wonderfully sweet piping of little frogs. Fresh 

 and ringing as child voices, it has, at a distance, 

 a certain rhythm, a soothing cadence, which lulls 

 the ear like the musical patter of rain-drops in 

 summer showers. Put your ear close to one — if 

 you can find him — and the sound is deafening, so 

 loud and shrill it pierces to the very marrow. The 

 small creature sits in some low shrub in the 

 swamp, grasping a twig on either side as with tiny 

 hands, while it inflates its air-sac from time to 

 time and sings the love-song of its race. Heard 

 afar, how soft and pleasing are these answering 



i8 



