414 NOTES ON NEW ENGLAND BIKDS 



of the sprouts. These birds and quails go off like a 

 report. 



April 16, 1853. Birds loosen and expand their feath- 

 ers and look larger in the rain. 



May 4, 1853. The woods and paths next them now 

 ring with the silver jingle of the field sparrow, the 

 medley of the brown thrasher, the honest qui vive of 

 the chewink, or his jingle from the top of a low copse 

 tree, while his mate scratches in the dry leaves beneath ; 

 the black and white creeper is hopping along the oak 

 boughs, head downward, pausing from time to time to 

 utter its note like a fine, delicate saw-sharpening ; and 

 ever and anon rises clear over all the smooth, rich 

 melody of the wood thrush. 



May 10, 1853. There is now a multiplicity of sounds, 

 in which the few faint spring ones are drowned. The 

 birds are in full blast, singing, warbling, chirping, 

 humming. Yet we do not receive more ideas through 

 our ears than before. The storms and ducks of spring 

 have swept by and left us to the repose of summer, the 

 farmers to the ignoble pursuits of planting and hoeing 

 corn and potatoes. The summer is not bracing, as when 

 you hear the note of the jay in the cool air of October 

 from the rustling chestnut woods. 



June 16, 1853. Before 4 a. m., or sunrise, the sound 

 of chip-birds and robins and bluebirds, etc., fills the 

 air and is incessant. It is a crowing on the roost, me- 

 thinks, as the cock crows before he goes abroad. They 

 do not sing deliberately as at eve, but greet the morn- 

 ing with an incessant twitter. Even the crickets seem 

 to join the concert. Yet I think it is not the same every 



