BIRDS 
73 
serve a favorite or study a new comer, 
her curiosity knows no bounds, and you 
are scanned and ridiculed from every 
point of observation. Yet I would not 
miss her: I would only subordinate her 
a little, make her less conspicuous. 
She is the parodist of the woods, and 
there is ever a mischievous, bantering, 
half-ironical undertone in her lay, as if 
she were conscious of mimicking and dis¬ 
concerting some envied songster. Am¬ 
bitious of song, practising and rehearsing 
in private, she yet seems the least sincere 
and genuine of the sylvan minstrels, as if 
she had taken up music only to be in the 
fashion, or not to be outdone by the 
Robins and Thrushes. In other words, 
she seems to sing from some outward 
motive, and not from inward joyousness. 
She is a good versifier, but not a great 
poet. Vigorous, rapid, copious, not with¬ 
out fine touches, but destitute of any 
high serene melody, her performance, like 
that of Thoreau’s squirrel, always implies 
a spectator. 
There is a certain air and polish about 
her strain, however, like that in the vi- 
