A FEATHEEED PRINCE. 



I have seen and heard the ruby-crowned kinglet. 

 It was at noon on Thursday, April 13, that a marvel- 

 ous song arose from our buckthorn hedge. A series 

 of liquid bubbles, then some astonishing trills and 

 arpeggios, and the intricate phrases of an elaborate 

 operatic aria fell upon my delighted ear. I had 

 never seen the bird before, but I knew him at once, 

 for the books all say that the song is past descrip- 

 tion. Nothing like it comes from any other throat. 

 I know the serene, spiritual hymn of the hermit 

 thrush, the ringing, reverberating joy of the fox 

 sparrow, the ecstatic frenzy of the brown thrasher, 

 the violin-like vocalism of the veery, and the varying 

 melodies of many lesser minstrels, but this differed 

 not in degree, but in kind. 



Bubbles rising through water, transformed to music 

 — that is as near as I can express it. The notes welled 

 out of his little throat, almost without consciousness 

 on his part, for apparently all the kinglet's energies 

 were bent on destroying whatever insect life could 

 be found on the twigs of the hedge. The music has 

 been called flute-like, but to me many of the passages 



