1880. } English Birds compared with American. 563 
Of the nightingale my judgment is perhaps formed on imper- 
fect evidence; for, as last year abroad, winter lingered in the lap 
of spring, and, indeed, even clung to the skirts of summer, these 
birds would not sing where and when they ought to, and for 
much of the spring I was outside of their bounds, so that finally 
I heard them but one evening in the very last of May. I must 
confess that there was everything in my circumstances then to 
disgust a concert-goer and to annoy a critic. In that higher 
latitude daylight did not fade away till nine o'clock ; and, until 
their bed time fairly came, song thrushes and blackbirds sang 
their loudest notes. These interruptions would have been toler- 
able, perhaps, had they not in turn, in that much frequented spot, 
been interrupted by trains, dogs and noisy loungers, while a high 
wind seemed to sweep away the notes I tried to catch. Still, by 
means of a friendly companion, of oft-read descriptions, and of an 
unmistakable character, I recognized and heard these notes be- 
fore the cold evening silenced them altogether, I estimated that 
the nightingale had a most wonderful compass, and was the 
greatest of all bird vocalists, but with a less individual and exqui- 
site genius than our wood thrush, Yet, to hear that delicious, 
soft, liquid warbled trill, which she alone can give, was a lasting 
pleasure. 
Scarcely less famous, and much more familiar, is the skylark. 
im I saw and heard a thousand times, spring and summer, 
morning, noon, and night. His flight is indeed astonishing, 
though exaggerated by report. I have lost him among the clouds, 
when, as often happened, the sky hung very low, and on clear 
days have strained my eyes to follow him; but I think that half a 
mile was full the greatest height he reached. His song is an 
unbroken, ecstatic torrent; but it is shrill, slightly harsh, and not 
very musical. It is not so rich as our bobolink’s roundelay ; and 
its sweetest notes, though they suggest, do not equal the canary’s 
Song, except for their intensity of utterance. All his poetry, and 
the secret of his charm, is in his flight. Look at him spring from 
earth, watch him rise with quick, pulsating wings, as if borne up 
by the impulse of his song, until your eye is almost baffled by his 
elevation, then behold him suddenly, as if overcome by love for 
mother-earth and home, drop headlong, still seeming to sing pas- 
sionately, until, at the very last, he spreads his wings, to float 
_ down calmly to his rest—and have you not seen one of nature’s 
true poets? > ' 
