The Townsend Solitaire 
dainty mould should winter in the South. It does—at times. It 
also winters on the northern border of the United States. This 
poet of the solitudes, he should avoid the haunts of men. He does, 
usually. But another time he may be seen hopping from bush to log 
in a suburban swamp, or moping under the edge of a new sidewalk. 
Indeed, 1 once saw a Solitaire flutter up from under a passenger coach, 
as it lay in station. He 
had happened to spy 
some bread-crumbs and 
there was nothing to 
hinder save the conduc¬ 
tor’s brisk “all aboard.” 
Surely such a bundle of 
contradictions you never 
did see—and all belied 
by an expression of lamb¬ 
like artlessness and dolce 
far niente which would 
do credit to a rag doll. 
The favored few 
who have known the 
Solitaire in his mountain 
haunts have not failed 
to testify to the beauty 
of his song. Indeed, I 
am tempted to pause 
here and present a little 
anthology of apprecia¬ 
tion of Solitaire music, 
so that the reader may 
judge for himself, if pos¬ 
sible, how far the poet 
bird and how far the 
witchery of romantic 
association may be re¬ 
sponsible for the reputed 
excellence of this bird’s 
song. Dr. J. S. New¬ 
berry, who in central 
Oregon encountered the 
bird in such numbers as 
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