Wilson Flagg, 1806-1884, was born in Beverly, Mass. He pursued his
academical course in Andover, at Phillips Academy, and entered Harvard
College, but did not graduate. His chief Works are: "Studies in the Field
and Forest," "The Woods and Byways of New England," and "The Birds and
Seasons of New England."
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Nature, for the delight of waking eyes, has arrayed the morning heavens in
the loveliest hues of beauty. Fearing to dazzle by an excess of delight,
she first announces day by a faint and glimmering twilight, then sheds a
purple tint over the brows of the rising morn, and infuses a transparent
ruddiness throughout the atmosphere. As daylight widens, successive groups
of mottled and rosy-bosomed clouds assemble on the gilded sphere, and,
crowned with wreaths of fickle rainbows, spread a mirrored flush over
hill, grove, and lake, and every village spire is burnished with their
splendor.
At length, through crimsoned vapors, we behold the sun's broad disk,
rising with a countenance so serene that every eye may view him ere he
arrays himself in his meridian brightness. Not many people who live in
towns are aware of the pleasure attending a ramble near the woods and
orchards at daybreak in the early part of summer. The drowsiness we feel
on rising from our beds is gradually dispelled by the clear and healthful
breezes of early day, and we soon experience an unusual amount of vigor
and elasticity.
During the night, the stillness of all things is the circumstance that
most powerfully attracts our notice, rendering us peculiarly sensitive to
every accidental sound that meets the ear. In the morning, at this time of
year, on the contrary, we are overpowered by the vocal and multitudinous
chorus of the feathered tribe. If you would hear the commencement of this
grand anthem of nature, you must rise at the very first appearance of
dawn, before the twilight has formed a complete semicircle above the
eastern porch of heaven.
The first note that proceeds from the little warbling host, is the shrill
chirp of the hairbird,--occasionally vocal at an hours on a warm summer
night. This strain, which is a continued trilling sound, is repeated with
diminishing intervals, until it becomes almost incessant. But ere the
hairbird has uttered many notes, a single robin begins to warble from a
neighboring orchard, soon followed by others, increasing in numbers until,
by the time the eastern sky is flushed with crimson, every male, robin in
the country round is singing with fervor.
It would be difficult to note the exact order in which the different birds
successively begin their parts in this performance; but the bluebird,
whose song is only a short, mellow warble, is heard nearly at the same
time with the robin, and the song sparrow joins them soon after with his
brief but finely modulated strain. The different species follow rapidly,
one after another, in the chorus, until the whole welkin rings with their
matin hymn of gladness.
I have often wondered that the almost simultaneous utterance of so many
different notes should produce no discords, and that they should result in
such complete harmony. In this multitudinous confusion of voices, no two
notes are confounded, and none has sufficient duration to grate harshly
with a dissimilar sound. Though each performer sings only a few strains
and then makes a pause, the whole multitude succeed one another with such
rapidity that we hear an uninterrupted flow of music until the broad light
of day invites them to other employments.
When there is just light enough to distinguish the birds, we may observe,
here and there, a single swallow perched on the roof of a barn or shed,
repeating two twittering notes incessantly, with a quick turn and a hop at
every note he utters. It would seem to be the design of the bird to
attract the attention of his mate, and this motion seems to be made to
assist her in discovering his position. As soon as the light has tempted
him to fly abroad, this twittering strain is uttered more like a continued
song, as he flits rapidly through the air.
But at this later moment the purple martins have commenced their more
melodious chattering, so loud as to attract for a while the most of our
attention. There is not a sound in nature so cheering and animating as the
song of the purple martin, and none so well calculated to drive away
melancholy. Though not one of the earliest voices to be heard, the chorus
is perceptibly more loud and effective when this bird has united with the
choir.
When the flush of the morning has brightened into vermilion, and the place
from which the sun is soon to emerge has attained a dazzling brilliancy,
the robins are already less tuneful. They are now becoming busy in
collecting food for their morning repast, and one by one they leave the
trees, and may be seen hopping upon the tilled ground, in quest of the
worms and insects that, have crept out during the night from their
subterranean retreats.
But as the robins grow silent, the bobolinks begin their vocal revelries;
and to a fanciful mind it might seem that the robins had gradually
resigned their part in the performance to the bobolinks, not one of which
is heard until some of the former have concluded their songs. The little
hairbird still continues his almost incessant chirping, the first to begin
and the last to quit the performance. Though the voice of this bird is not
very sweetly modulated, it blends harmoniously with the notes of other
birds, and greatly increases the charming effect of the combination.
It would be tedious to name all the birds that take part in this chorus;
but we must not omit the pewee, with his melancholy ditty, occasionally
heard like a short minor strain in an oratorio; nor the oriole, who is
really one of the chief performers, and who, as his bright plumage flashes
upon the sight, warbles forth a few notes so clear and mellow as to be
beard above every other sound. Adding a pleasing variety to all this
harmony, the lisping notes of the meadowlark, uttered in a shrill tone,
and with a peculiar pensive modulation, are plainly audible, with short
rests between each repetition.
There is a little brown sparrow, resembling the hairbird, save a general
tint of russet in his plumage, that may be heard distinctly among the
warbling host. He is rarely seen in cultivated grounds, but frequents the
wild pastures, and is the bird that warbles so sweetly at midsummer, when
the whortleberries are ripe, and the fields are beautifully spangled with
red lilies.
There is no confusion in the notes of his song, which consists of one
syllable rapidly repeated, but increasing in rapidity and rising to a
higher key towards the conclusion. He sometimes prolongs his strain, when
his notes are observed to rise and fall in succession. These plaintive and
expressive notes are very loud and constantly uttered, during the hour
that precedes the rising of the sun. A dozen warblers of this species,
singing in concert, and distributed in different parts of the field, form,
perhaps, the most delightful part of the woodland oratorio to which we
have listened.
At sunrise hardly a robin can be beard in the whole neighborhood, and the
character of the performance has completely changed during the last half
hour. The first part was more melodious and tranquilizing, the last is
more brilliant and animating. The grass finches, the vireos, the wrens,
and the linnets have joined their voices to the chorus, and the bobolinks
are loudest in their song. But the notes of the birds in general are not
so incessant as before sunrise. One by one they discontinue their lays,
until at high noon the bobolink and the warbling flycatcher are almost the
only vocalists to be heard in the fields.