102 
A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds. 
and the question being a nice one, had 
got over a wire fence to have the sun at 
my hack. There I had barely focused 
my eight-power glass upon a leafless wil¬ 
low beside an irrigation ditch, when all 
at once there moved into its field such a 
piece of pure gorgeousness as I have no 
hope of making my reader see by means 
of any description: a small bird in three 
colors, — deep, velvety black, the snow¬ 
iest white, and the most brilliant red. 
Its glory lay in the depth and purity of 
the three colors; its singularity lay in a 
point not mentioned in book descrip¬ 
tions, being inconspicuous, I suppose, 
in cabinet specimens: a line (almost 
literally a line) of white about the eye. 
From its position and its extreme tenu¬ 
ity I took it for the lower eyelid, but 
as to that I cannot speak with positive¬ 
ness. It would hardly have showed, 
even in life, I dare say, but for its in¬ 
tensely black surroundings. As it was, 
it fairly stared at me. I cannot affirm 
that it added to the bird’s beauty. 
Apart from it the colors were all what I 
may call solid, — laid on in broad masses, 
that is: a red belly, a long white band 
(not a bar) on each wing, some white tail 
feathers, white lower tail coverts, and 
everything else black. It does not sound 
like anything so very extraordinary, I 
confess. But the reader should have 
seen it. Unless he is a very dry stick 
indeed, he would have let off an excla¬ 
mation or two, I can warrant. There 
are cases in which the whole is a good 
deal more than the sum of all its parts. 
The bird was on one of the larger 
branches, over which it moved in some¬ 
thing of the black-and-white creeper’s 
manner, turning its head to one side and 
the other alternately as it progressed. 
Then it sat still a long time (a long time 
for a warbler), so near me that the glass 
brought it almost into my hand, while 
I devoured its beauty; and then, of a 
sudden, it took flight into the dense, 
leafy top of a tall cottonwood, and I saw 
it no more. 
No more for that time, that is to 
say. In my mind, indeed, I bade it 
good-by forever. It was not to be 
thought of that such a bit of splendor 
(I had read of it as a mountain bird) 
should happen in my way more than 
once. But eight days afterward (March 
28), in nearly the same place, it ap¬ 
peared again, straight over my head; 
and I was almost as much astonished 
as before. It was exploring the bare 
branches of a row of roadside ash trees, 
and I followed it, or rather preceded 
it, backing away as it flitted from one 
tree to the next, keeping the sun be¬ 
hind me. It carried itself now much 
like the common redstart; a little more 
inclined to moments of inactivity, per¬ 
haps, but at short intervals darting into 
the air after a passing insect with all 
conceivable quickness. 
And such colors ! Such an unspeak¬ 
able red, so intense a black, and so pure 
a white! If I said that the vermilion 
flycatcher was the brightest bird I saw 
in Arizona, I was like the Hebrew psalm- 
ist. I said it in my haste. 
This time the redstart was in a sing¬ 
ing mood. On the previous occasion 
it had kept silence, and I had thought 
I was glad to have it so, feeling that no 
voice could be good enough to go with 
such feathers. In its way the feeling 
was justified; but, after all, it would 
have been too bad to miss the song. 
Curiosity has its claims, no less than 
sentiment. And happily the song proved 
to be a very pretty one; similar to that 
of the Eastern bird, to be sure, but less 
hurried (so it seemed to me), less over- 
emphatic, and in a voice less sharp and 
thin; a very pretty song (for a war¬ 
bler), though, as is true of the Phaino- 
pepla and most other brilliantly hand¬ 
some birds (and all good children), the 
redstart’s proper appeal is to the eye. 
So far as human appreciation is con¬ 
cerned, it need make no other. 
I have heard a canyon wren in a can¬ 
yon, I said. It was a glorious day in 
a glorious place, — Sabino Canyon, it is 
called, in the Santa Catalina Mountains. 
