The Black-headed Grosbeaks 



spouse could possibly deem her beautiful, and he, as every one knows, is 

 blinded by springtide's passion. Her only virtue, so far as I can see, is to 

 say bix quite dutifully — also quite emphatically — and so keep up the 

 Grosbeak tradition. 



The glory of the Black-headed Grosbeak is his song — not often a 

 brilliant or wonderful song, but always a jovial, rolling, or eumoirous 

 song. Sometimes it is a little argumentative, as though the singer, having 

 taken a brief for optimism, had encountered a skeptic. Sometimes the 

 singer's heart is so full that he carries his song about with him while he 

 works. Bug-catching is a very necessary occupation, so he follows it 

 dutifully, but song breaks out after every third or fourth bug, and it 

 follows him about as he threads the mazes of willow and alder or mountain 

 birch. At such times, too, his progress is further punctuated by bixes, 

 all harmless, apparently, but delivered with such energy that a camper 

 caught at close quarters starts to his feet. 



The song of the Black-headed Grosbeak is frequently compared to 

 that of the Western Robin. Chance phrases caught at a distance are 

 sometimes indistinguishable. But the Grosbeak's song lacks at all times 

 the incisiveness of the Robin's carol. Its notes are softer, rounder, mel- 

 lower, and a little weaker. The bird himself is not so brusque. Heard at 

 close quarters there are grace notes and little embellishments which exceed 

 the Robin's art. Once, at the foot of Mt. Shasta, I listened to a perfectly 

 wonderful song of the Black-headed Grosbeak. He must have been 

 within thirty feet of me, behind a screen of manzanita brush, so that I got 

 the modulations and finer passages. But the singer was, undoubtedly, a 

 bird of ten thousand, for his voice was fine and exquisitely flexible, so that 

 he executed the most brilliant trills and appogiaturas. Although I am 

 loth to institute such a comparison, I am bound to confess that much of 

 his music was like that of a highly trained canary, for it was brilliant, 

 crystalline, exquisitely modulated, and highly varied. This bird was not 

 at all above giving the hearty, homely, rolling song of his species, but he 

 graced it anew with every repetition, as became a highly accomplished 

 artist. The concerto was all too brief, for the Grosbeak is rather a rest- 

 less spirit ; but his memorable effort taught me an altogether new respect 

 for his species. And, after all, doesn't a bird species, like the human 

 race, deserve to be judged by its best examples? 



The happiness which fills the Grosbeak's breast carries into the nest- 

 ing season. He is so proud to have Mrs. G. honor him with her company, 

 that he is willing to help build the nest, or at least to pretend to — singing 

 is always more important on such occasions — and he is willing, more than 

 willing, to take his turn at sitting upon those precious eggs. This 

 means that he is a model husband and father. The glory of paternity 



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