THE BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD.

The singing-birds whose notes are familiar to us, in towns and villages

and the suburbs of the city, are found in the breeding-season only in

these places, and are strangers to the deep woods and solitary

pastures. Most of our singing-birds follow in the wake of the pioneer

of the wilderness, and increase in numbers with the clearing and

settlement of the country,--not, probably, from any dependence on the

protection of mankind, but on account of the increased abundance of the

insect food upon which they subsist, consequent upon the tilling of the

ground. It is well known that the labors of the husbandman cause an

excessive multiplication of all those species of insects whose larvae

are cherished in the soil, and of all that infest the orchard and

garden. The farm is capable of supporting insects just in proportion to

its capacity for producing corn and fruit. Insects will multiply with

their means of subsistence in and upon the earth; and birds, if not

destroyed by artificial methods, will increase in proportion to the

multiplication of those insects which constitute their principal food.

These considerations will sufficiently account for the fact, which

often excites a little astonishment, that more singing-birds are found

in the suburbs of the city, and among the parks and gardens of the

city, than in the deep forest, where, even in the singing-season, the

silence is sometimes melancholy. It is still to be remarked, that the

species which are thus familiar in their habits do not include all the

singing-birds, but they include all that are well known to the majority

of our people. These are the birds of the garden and orchard. There are

many other species, wild and solitary in their habits, which are

delightful songsters in uncultivated regions remote from the town. But

even these are rare in the depths of the forest. They live on the edge

of the wood and in the half-wooded pasture.

The birds of the garden and orchard have been frequently described, and

their habits are very generally known; but in the usual descriptions

little has been said of their powers and peculiarities of song. In the

present sketches, I have given particular attention to the vocal powers

of the different birds, and have endeavored to designate the parts

which each one performs in the grand hymn of Nature. I shall first

introduce the Song-Sparrow, (_Fringilla melodia_,) a little bird that

is universally known and admired. The Song-Sparrow is the earliest

visitant and the latest resident of the vocal tenants of the field. He

is plain in his vesture, undistinguished from the female by any

superiority of plumage, and comes forth in the spring and takes his

departure in the autumn in the same suit of russet and gray by which he

is always recognized.

In March, before the violet has ventured to peep out from the southern

knoll of the pasture or the sunny brow of the hill, while the northern

skies are liable to pour down at any hour a storm of sleet and snow,

the Song-Sparrow, beguiled by southern winds, has already made his

appearance, and, on still mornings, may be heard warbling his few merry

notes, as if to make the earliest announcement of his arrival. He is,

therefore, the true harbinger of spring, and, though not the sweetest

songster of the woods, has the merit of bearing to man the earliest

tidings of the opening year, and of declaring the first vernal promises

of Nature. As the notes of those birds that sing only in the night come

with a double charm to our ears, because they are harmonized by silence

and hallowed by the hour that is sacred to repose--in like manner does

the Song-Sparrow delight us in tenfold measure, because he sings the

sweet prelude to the universal hymn of Nature.

His haunts are the pastures which have been half reduced to tillage,

and are still partially filled with wild shrubbery; for he is not so

familiar in his habits as the Hair-bird, that comes close up to our

door-step, to find the crumbs that are swept from our tables. Though

his voice is constantly heard in the garden and orchard, he selects a

more retired spot for his nest, preferring not to trust his progeny to

the doubtful mercy of the lords of creation. In some secure retreat,

under a tussock of herbage or a tuft of shrubbery, the female sits upon

her nest of soft dry grass, containing four or five eggs, of a greenish

white ground, almost entirely covered with brownish specks. Commencing

in April, she rears three broods of young during the season, and her

mate prolongs his notes until the last brood has flown from the nest.

The notes of the Song-Sparrow would not entitle him to be ranked among

our principal singing-birds, were it not for the remarkable variations

of his song, in which respect he is equalled, I think, by no other

bird. Of these variations there are seven or eight which may be

distinctly recognized, and differing enough to be considered separate

tunes. The bird does not warble these in regular succession; he is in

the habit of repeating one several times, and then leaves it, and

repeats another in a similar manner. Mr. Paine[1] took note, on one

occasion, of the number of times a Song-Sparrow sang each of the tunes,

and the order of singing them. Of the tunes, as he had numbered them,

the bird "sang No. 1, 27 times; No. 2, 36 times; No. 3, 23 times; No.

4, 19 times; No. 5, 21 times; No. 6, 32 times; No. 7, 18 times. Perhaps

next he would sing No. 2, then perhaps No. 4, or 5, and so on." Mr.

Paine adds, "Some males will sing each tune about fifty times, though

seldom; some will only sing them from five to ten times. But as far as

I have observed, each male has his seven songs. I have applied the rule

to as many as a dozen different birds, and the result has been the

same."

An individual will sometimes, for half a day, confine himself almost

entirely to a few of these variations; but he will commonly sing each

one more or less in the course of the day. I have observed also, that,

when one principal singer takes up a particular tune, other birds in

the vicinity will unite in the same. The several variations are mostly

in triple time, a few in common time, and there is an occasional

blending of both in the same tune, which consists usually of four bars

or strains, sometimes five, though the song is frequently broken off at

the end of the third strain. This habit of varying his notes through so

many permutations, and the singularly fine intonations of many of them,

entitle the Song-Sparrow to a very high rank as a singing-bird.

There is a manifest difference in the expression of these several

tunes. The one which I have marked as No. 3 is particularly plaintive,

and is usually in common time. No. 2 is the one which I think is most

frequently sung. No. 5 is querulous and entirely unmusical. There is a

remarkable precision in the song of this bird, and the finest singers

are those which, in the language of musicians, have the least

execution. There are some individuals that blend their notes together

so promiscuously, and use so many flourishes, that it is difficult to

identify their song, or to perceive its expression. Whether these tunes

of the Song-Sparrow express to his mate, or to others of his species,

different sentiments, and convey different messages, or whether the

bird adopts them for his own amusement, I have not been able to

determine. Neither have I learned whether a certain hour of the day or

a certain state of the weather predisposes him to sing a particular

tune. This point may, perhaps, be determined by some future observer;

and it may be ascertained that the birds of this species have their

matins and their vespers, their songs of rejoicing and of complaining,

of courtship when in presence of their mate, and of encouragement and

solace when she is sitting upon her nest. As Nature has a benevolent

and a definite object in every instinct which she has established among

her creatures, it is not probable that this habit of the Song-Sparrow

is the mere result of accident. All the variations of his song are

given, with the specimens, at the end of this article, and, though

individuals differ in their singing, the notes will afford the reader a

good general idea of the several tunes.

Soon after the arrival of the Song-Sparrow, when the spring-flowers

have begun to be conspicuous in the meadow, we are greeted by the more

fervent and lengthened notes of the Vesper-bird, (_Fringilla

graminea_,) poured out with a peculiarly pensive modulation. This

species closely resembles the former, but may be distinguished from it,

when on the wing, by two white lateral feathers in the tail. The chirp

of the Song-Sparrow is also louder, and pitched on a lower key, than

that of the present species. By careless observers, these two Finches,

on account of the similarity in their general appearance and habits,

are considered identical. The Vesper-bird, however, is the least

familiar of the two, and, when both are singing at the same time, will

be found to occupy a position more remote from the house than the

other. In several localities, these two species are distinguished by

the names of Bush-Sparrow and Ground-Sparrow, from their supposed

different habits of placing their nests, one in a bush and the other on

the ground. But they do not in fact differ in this respect, as each

species occasionally builds in both ways.

The Vesper-bird attracts more general attention to his notes than the

Sparrow, because he sings a longer, though a more monotonous song, and

warbles with more fervency. His notes bear considerable resemblance to

those of the Canary-bird, but they are more subdued and plaintive, and

have a peculiar reedy sound, which is never perceived in the notes of

the Canary. This bird is periodical in his habits of song, confining

his lays to particular hours of the day and conditions of the weather.

The Song-Sparrow, on the contrary, sings about equally from morning to

night, and but little more at one hour than another; and the different

performers of this species do not seem to join in concert. This habit

renders the latter more companionable, at the same time it causes his

notes to be less regarded than those of the Vesper-bird, who pours them

forth more sparingly, and at regular periods.

The Vesper-bird begins with all his kindred in a general concert at

early dawn, after which they are comparatively silent until sunset,

when they repeat their concert, with still greater zeal than they

chanted in the morning. It is from this circumstance that it has

obtained the name it bears--from its evening hymn, or vespers. I have

heard this name applied to it only in one locality; but it is so

precisely applicable to its habits, that I have thought it worthy of

being retained as its distinguishing cognomen. There are particular

states of the weather that frequently call out the birds of this

species into a general concert at other periods of the day--as when

rain is suddenly followed by sunshine, or when a clear sky is suddenly

darkened by clouds, presenting to them a sort of occasional morn and

occasional even. It may be remarked, that you seldom hear one of these

birds singing alone; but when one begins, all others in the vicinity

immediately join him.

The usual resorts of the Vesper-bird are the pastures and the

hay-fields; hence the name of Grass-Finch, by which he is usually

distinguished. His voice is heard frequently by the rustic roadsides,

where he picks up a considerable portion of his subsistence. This is

the little bird that so generally serenades us during our evening

walks, at a little distance from the town, and not so far into the

woods as the haunts of the Thrushes. When we go out into the country,

on pleasant days in June or July, at nightfall, we hear multitudes of

them singing sweetly from a hundred different points in the fields and

farms.

Among the birds which are endowed by Nature with the gift of song in

connection with gaudy plumage is the American Goldfinch, or Hemp-bird,

(_Fringilla tristis_,) one of the most interesting and delicate of the

feathered tribe. Of all our birds this bears the closest resemblance to

the Canary, both in his plumage and in the notes of his song. He cannot

be ranked with the finest of our songsters, being deficient in compass

and variety. But he has great sweetness of tone, and is equalled by few

birds in the rapidity of his execution. His note of complaint is

exactly like that of the Canary, and is heard at almost all times of

the year. He utters also, when flying, a very animated series of notes,

during the repeated undulations of his night, and they seem to be

uttered with each effort he makes to rise.

It is remarkable that this bird, though he often rears two broods in a

season, does not begin to build his nest until July, after the first

broods of the Robin and the Song-Sparrow have flown from their nests.

Mr. Augustus Fowler[2] is of opinion, from his observation of their

habits of feeding their young, that the cause of this procrastination

is, "that they would be unable to find, in the spring and early summer,

those new and milky seeds which are the necessary food of their young,"

and takes occasion to allude to that beneficent law of Nature which

provides that these birds "should not bring forth their young until the

very time when those seeds used by them for food have passed into the

milk, in which state they are easily dissolved by the stomach, and when

an abundant supply may always be found."

The Hemp-birds are remarkable for associating at a certain season, and

singing, as it were, in choirs. "During spring and summer," says Mr.

Fowler, "they rove about in small flocks, and in July will assemble

together in considerable numbers on a particular tree, seemingly for no

other purpose than to sing. These concerts are held by them on the

forenoon of each day, for a week or ten days, after which they soon

commence building their nests. I am inclined to believe that this is

their time of courtship, and that they have a purpose in these meetings

beside that of singing. If perchance one is heard in the air, the males

utter their call-note with great emphasis, particularly if the

new-comer be a female; and while in her undulating flight she describes

a circle, preparatory to alighting, they will stand almost erect, move

their heads to the right and left, and burst simultaneously into song."

While engaged in these concerts, it would seem as if they were governed

by some rule, that enabled them to time their voices, and to swell or

diminish the volume of sound. Some of this effect is undoubtedly

produced by the gradual manner in which the different voices join in

harmony, beginning with one or two, and increasing in numbers in a sort

of geometrical progression, until all are singing at once, and then in

the same gradual manner becoming silent. This produces the effect of a

perfect _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_. Beginning, as it seems, at a

distance, one voice leads on another, and the numbers multiply until

they make a loud shout, which dies away gradually until one single

voice winds up the chorus. These concerts are repeated at intervals,

sometimes for an hour in duration.

Another peculiar habit of the Hemp-bird is that of building a nest, and

then tearing it to pieces before any eggs have been deposited in it,

and using the materials to make a new nest in another locality. In

former years I have repeatedly watched this singular operation, in the

Lombardy poplars that stood before my study-windows. I have thought

that the male bird only was addicted to this practice, and that this

might be his method of amusement while unprovided with a partner. The

nest of the Hemp-bird is made of cotton, the down of the fern, and

other soft materials, woven together with threads and the fibres of

bark, and lined with thistle-down, if it be late enough to obtain it,

and sometimes with cow's hair. It is commonly placed in the fork of the

slender branches of a maple, linden, or poplar, and is fastened to them

with singular ingenuity.

Among the earliest songsters of spring, occasionally tuning his voice

before the arrival of the multitudinous choir, is the Crimson Finch or

American Linnet (_Fringilla purpurea_). I have frequently heard his

notes on warm days in March, and once, in a very mild season, I heard

one warbling cheerily on the 18th of February. But the Linnet does not

persevere like the Song-Sparrow, after he has once commenced. His voice

is only occasionally heard, until the middle of April, after which he

is a very constant singer.

The notes of this bird are very simple and melodious, and some

individuals greatly excel others in their powers of song. It is

generally believed that the young males are the best singers, and that

age diminishes their vocal capacity. The greater number utter only a

few strains, resembling the notes of the Warbling Fly-catcher, (_Vireo

gilvus_,) and these are constantly repeated during the greater part of

the day. His song consists of four or five bars or strains; but there

are individuals that extend them _ad libitum_, varying their notes

after the manner of the Canary. The latter, however, sings with more

precision, and is louder and shriller in his tones. I have not observed

that this bird is more prone to sing in the morning and evening than at

noonday and at all hours.

I have alluded to the fact that the finest singing-birds build their

nests and seek their food either on the ground or among the shrubbery

and the lower branches of trees, and that, when singing, they are

commonly perched rather low. The Linnet is an exception to this general

habit of the singing-birds, and, in company with the Warbling

Fly-catchers, he is commonly high up in an elm or some other tall tree,

and almost entirely out of sight, when exercising himself in song. It

is this preference for the higher branches of trees that enables these

birds, as well as the Golden Robin, to be denizens of the city. Hence

they may be heard singing as freely and melodiously from the trees on

Boston Common as in the wild-wood or orchard in the country.

I have seen the Linnet frequently in confinement; but he does not sing

so well in a cage as in a state of freedom. His finest and most

prolonged strains are delivered while on the wing. On such occasions

only does he sing with fervor. While perched on a tree, his song is

short and not greatly varied. If you closely watch his movements when

he is singing, he may be seen on a sudden to take flight, and, while

poising himself in the air, though still advancing, he pours out a

continued strain of melody, not surpassed by the notes of any other

bird. On account of the infrequency of these occasions, it is seldom we

have an opportunity to witness a full exhibition of the musical powers

of the Linnet.

The male American Linnet is crimson on the head, neck, and throat,

dusky on the upper part of its body, and beneath somewhat

straw-colored. It is remarkable that a great many individuals are

destitute of this color, being plainly clad, like the female. These are

supposed to be old birds, and the loss of color is attributed to age.

The same change takes place when the bird is confined.

The little bird whose notes serve more than those of any other species

to enliven the summer noondays in our villages is the House-Wren

(_Troglodytes fulvus_). It is said to reside and rear its young chiefly

in the Middle States; but it is far from being uncommon in

Massachusetts, and, as it extends its summer migrations to Labrador, it

is probable that it breeds there also. It is evident, however, that its

breeding-places are not confined to northern latitudes. It is a

migratory bird, is never seen here in winter, but commonly arrives in

May and returns south early in October. It builds in a hollow tree,

like the Blue-bird, or in a box or other vessel provided for it, and by

furnishing such accommodations we may easily entice one to make its

home in our inclosures.

The Wren is a very active bird, and one of the most restless of the

feathered tribe. He is continually in motion, and even when singing he

is always flitting about and changing his position. We see him in

almost all places, as it were, at the same moment of time,--now

warbling in ecstasy from the roof of a shed, then, with his wings

spread and feathers ruffled, scolding furiously at a Blue-bird or a

Swallow that has alighted on his box, or driving a Robin from a

cherry-tree that stands near his habitation. The next instant we

observe him running along on a stone wall, and diving down and in and

out, from one side to the other, through the openings between the

stories, with all the nimbleness of a squirrel. He is on the ridge of

the barn-roof, he is peeping into the dove-cote, he is in the garden

under the currant-bushes, or chasing a spider or a moth under a

cabbage-leaf; again he is on the roof of the shed, warbling

vociferously; and all these manoeuvres and peregrinations have occupied

hardly a minute, so rapid and incessant is he in his motions.

The notes of the Wren are very lively and garrulous, and, if not

uttered more frequently during the heat of the day, are certainly more

noticeable at this hour. There is a concert at noonday, as well as in

the morning and evening, among the birds, and in the former the Wren is

one of the principal musicians. After the full rays of the sun have

silenced the early performers, the Song-Sparrow and the Red Thrush

continue to sing, at intervals, the greater part of the day. The Wren

is likewise heard at all hours; but when the languishing heat of noon

has arrived, and most of the birds are silent, the few that continue to

sing become more than usually vocal, and seem to form a select company.

They appear, indeed, to prefer the noonday, because the general silence

that prevails at this hour renders their voices more distinguishable

than at other times. The birds which are thus, as it were, associated

with the Wren, in this noonday concert, are the Bobolink, the Cat-bird,

and the two Warbling Fly-catchers, occasionally joined by the few and

simple notes of the Summer Yellow-bird. If we are in the vicinity of

the deep woods, we may also hear, at this hour, the loud and shrill

voice of the Golden-Crowned Thrush, a bird that is partial to the heat

of noon.

Of all these, however, the Wren is the most remarkable, having a note

that is singularly varied and animated. He exhibits great compass and

power of execution, but wants variety in his tones. He begins very

sharp and shrill, like a grasshopper, then suddenly falls to a series

of low guttural notes, and ascends, like the rolling of a drum, to

another series of high notes, rapidly trilled. Almost without a pause,

he recommences with his querulous insect-chirp, and proceeds through

the same trilling and demi-semiquavering as before. He is not

particular about the part of the song which he makes his closing note,

but will leave off right in the middle of a strain, when he appears to

be in the height of ecstasy, to pick up a spider or a fly.

As the Wren raises two broods of young in a season, his notes are

prolonged to a late period of the summer, being frequently heard in the

second or third week in August. He leaves for a southern clime about

the first of October. In his migratory habits he differs from the

European Wren, which is a constant resident in his native regions.

Our American birds, like the American flowers, have not been celebrated

in classic song. They are scarcely known, except to our own people, and

they have not in general been exalted by praise above their real

merits. We read, both in prose and verse, the praises of the European

Lark, Linnet, and Nightingale, and the English Robin Redbreast has been

immortalized in song. But the American Robin, (_Turdus migratorius_,)

though surnamed Redbreast, is a bird of different species and different

habits. Little has been written about him, and he enjoys but little

celebrity; he has never been puffed and overpraised, and, though

universally admired, the many who admire him are diffident all the

while, lest they are mistaken in their judgment and are wasting their

admiration upon an object that is unworthy of it, and whose true merits

fall short of their own estimate.

I shall not ask pardon of those critics who are always canting about

genius--and who would probably deny this gift to the Robin, because he

cannot cry like a chicken or squall like a cat, and because with his

charming strains he does not mingle all sorts of discords and

incongruous sounds--for assigning to the Robin the highest rank as a

singing-bird. Let them say of him, in the cant of modern criticism,

that his performances cannot be great, because they are faultless; it

is enough for me, that his mellow notes, heard at the earliest flush of

morning, in the more busy hour of noon, or the quiet lull of evening,

come upon the ear in a stream of unqualified melody, as if he had

learned to sing under the direct instruction of that beautiful Dryad

who taught the Lark and the Nightingale. The Robin is surpassed by

certain birds in some particular qualities. The Mocking-bird has more

power, the Red Thrush more variety, the Vesper-bird more execution, and

the Bobolink more animation; but each of these birds has more faults

than the Robin, and would be less esteemed as a constant companion, a

vocalist for all hours, whose strains never tire and never offend.

There are thousands who admire the Mocking-bird, because, after pouring

forth a continued stream of ridiculous and disagreeable sounds, or a

series of two or three notes repeated more than a hundred times in

uninterrupted and monotonous succession, he condescends to utter a

single delightfully modulated strain. He often brings his tiresome

_extravaganzas_ to a magnificent climax of melody, and just as often

concludes an inimitable chant with a most contemptible bathos. But the

notes of the Robin are all melodious, all delightful,--loud without

vociferation, mellow without monotony, fervent without ecstasy, and

combining more of mellowness of tone, plaintiveness, cheerfulness, and

propriety of execution, than those of any other bird.

The Robin is the Philomel of our spring and summer mornings in New

England, and in all the country north and west of these States. Without

his sweet notes, the mornings would be like a vernal landscape without

flowers, or a summer-evening sky without tints. He is the chief

performer in the delightful anthem that welcomes the rising day. Of the

others, the best are but accompaniments of more or less importance.

Remove the Robin from this woodland orchestra, and it would be left

without a _soprano_. Over all the northern parts of this continent,

wherever there are any human settlements, these birds are numerous and

familiar. There is probably not an orchard in all New England that is

not supplied with several of these musicians. When we consider the

millions thus distributed over this broad country, we can imagine the

sublimity of that chorus which, from the middle of April until the last

of July, must daily ascend to heaven from the voices of these birds,

not one male of which is silent, on any pleasant morning, from the

earliest flush of dawn until sunrise.

In my boyhood, an early morning-walk was one of my favorite

recreations, and never can I forget those delightful matins that

awaited me at every turn. Even then I wondered that so little

admiration was expressed for the song of the Robin, who seemed to me to

be worthy of the highest regard. The Robin, when reared in confinement,

is one of the most affectionate and interesting of birds. His powers of

song are likewise susceptible of great improvement. Though not prone to

imitation, he may be taught to sing tunes, and to imitate the notes of

other birds. I have heard one whistle "Over the water to Charlie" as

well as it could be played with a fife. Indeed, this bird is so

tractable, that I believe any well-directed efforts would never fail of

teaching him to sing any simple melody.

But what do we care about his power of learning artificial music? Even

if he could be taught to perform like a _maestro_, this would not

enhance his value as a minstrel of the woods. We are concerned with the

birds only as they are in a state of nature. It is the simplicity of

the songs of birds, as I have before remarked, that constitutes their

principal charm; and were the Robins so changed in their nature as to

relinquish their native notes, and sing only tunes hereafter, we should

listen to them with as much indifference as to the whistling of boys in

the streets.

In the elms on Boston Common, and in all the lofty trees in the suburbs

as well as in the country villages, are two little birds whose songs

are heard daily and hourly, from the middle of May until the latter

part of summer. These are the Warbling Fly-catchers (_Vireo gilvus and

V. olivaceus_). The first is commonly designated as the Warbling Vireo,

the second as the Red-eyed Vireo. The former arrives about a week or

ten days earlier than the other, and becomes silent likewise at a

somewhat earlier period. Both species are very similar in their habits,

frequenting the villages in preference to the woods, singing at all

hours of the day, particularly at noon, taking all their insect prey

from the leaves and branches of trees, or seizing it as it flits by

their perch, and amusing themselves, while thus employed, with

oft-repeated fragments of song. Each builds a pensile nest, or places

it in the fork of the slender branches of a tree. I have seen a nest of

the Warbling Vireo placed less than fifteen feet from the ground, on a

pear-tree, directly opposite the window of a chamber that was

constantly occupied; but the nests of both species are usually

suspended at a considerable height from the ground.

The notes of the Warbling Vireo have been described by the words,

"Brigadier, Brigadier, Bridget." They are few, simple, and melodious,

and being often repeated, they form a very important part of the sylvan

music of cultivated and thickly-settled places. It is difficult to

obtain sight of this little warbler while he is singing, on account of

his small size, the olive color of his plumage, and his habit of

perching among the dense foliage of the trees.

The Red-eyed Vireo is more generally known by his note, because he is

particularly vocal during the heat of the long summer-days, when other

birds are comparatively silent. The modulation of his notes is similar

to that of the common Robin, but his tones are sharper, and he sings in

a very desultory manner, leaving off very frequently in the middle of a

strain to seize a moth or a beetle. Singing, while he is engaged in

song, never seems to be his sole employment. This is the little bird

that warbles for us late in the summer, after almost all other birds

have become silent, uttering his moderate notes, as if for his own

amusement, during all the heat of the day, from the trees by the

roadsides and in our inclosures. We might then suppose him to be

repeating very moderately the words, "Do you hear me? Do you see me?"

with the rising inflection of the voice, and with a pause after each

sentence, as if he waited for an answer.

As soon as the cherry-tree is in blossom, and when the oak and the

maple are beginning to unfold their plaited leaves, the loud and mellow

notes of the Golden Robin (_Icterus Baltimore_) are heard for the first

time in the year. I have never known the birds of this species to

arrive before this date, and they seem to be governed by the supply of

their insect food, which probably becomes abundant simultaneously with

the flowering of the orchards. These birds may from that time be

observed diligently hunting among the branches and foliage of the

trees, and they appear to make a particular examination of the

blossoms, from which they obtain a great variety of flies and beetles

that are lodged in them. While thus employed, the bird frequently

utters his brief, but loud and melodious notes; but he sings, like the

Vireo, only while attending to the wants of life. Almost all remarkable

singing-birds, when warbling, give themselves up entirely to song, and

pay no regard to other demands upon their time until they have

concluded. But the Golden Robin never relaxes from his industry, nor

remains stationed upon the branch of a tree for the sole purpose of

singing. He sings, like an industrious maid-of-all-work, only while

employed in the ordinary concerns of life.

The Golden Robin is said to inhabit North America from Canada to

Mexico; but there is reason to believe that the species is most

abundant in the north-eastern parts of the continent, and that a

greater number breed in the New England States than either south or

west of this section. They are also more numerous in the suburbs of

cities and towns than in the ruder and more primitive parts of the

country. Their peculiar manner of protecting their pensile nests, by

hanging them from the extremities of the lofty branches of an elm or

other tall tree, enables the bird to rear its young with great

security, even in the heart of the city. The only animals that are able

to reach their nests are the smaller squirrels, which sometimes descend

the long, slender branches upon which they are suspended, and devour

the eggs.

This depredation I have never witnessed; but I have seen the Red

Squirrel descend in this manner to devour the crysalis of a certain

insect, which was rolled up in a leaf.

The ways and manners of the Golden Robin are very interesting. He is

remarkable for his vivacity, and his bright plumage renders all his

movements conspicuous. His plumage needs no description, since every

one is familiar with its colors, as they are seen like flashes of fire

among the trees. The bird derives its specific name (Baltimore) from

the resemblance of its colors to the livery of Lord Baltimore of

Maryland. The name of a bird ought to have either a sylvan or a poetic

origin. This has neither. I prefer, therefore, the common and

expressive name of Golden Robin.

This bird is supposed to possess considerable power of musical

imitation. Still it may be observed that in all cases he gives the

notes of those birds only whose voice resembles his own. Thus, he often

repeats the song of the Red-bird, but in doing this he varies his own

notes no more than he might do without meaning any imitation. Though he

repeats but few notes, he utters them with great variety of modulation.

Sometimes for several days he confines himself to a single strain, and

afterwards for about an equal space of time he will adopt another

strain. Sometimes he lengthens his brief notes into an extended melody,

and sings in a sort of ecstasy, like the birds of the Finch tribe. Such

musical paroxysms are exceedingly rare in his case, and seem to be

occasioned by some momentary exultation.

The Golden Robin rears but one brood of young in this part of the

country, and his cheerful notes are discontinued soon after the young

have left their nest. The song of the old bird seems after this period

hardly necessary to the offspring, who keep up an incessant chirping

from the moment of leaving their nest until they are able to accompany

the old ones to the woods, whither they retire in the latter part of

the season. It is remarkable, that, after a perfect silence of two or

three weeks after this time, the Golden Robins suddenly make their

appearance again for a few days, uttering the same merry notes with

which they hailed the arrival of summer. They soon disappear again, and

before autumn arrives they make their annual journey to the South,

where they pass the winter.

There is no singing-bird in New England that enjoys the notoriety of

the Bobolink (_Icterus agripennis_). He is like a rare wit in our

social or political circles. Everybody is talking about him and quoting

his remarks, and all are delighted with his company. He is not without

great merits as a songster; but he is well known and admired, because

he is showy, noisy, and flippant, and sings only in the open field, and

frequently while poised on the wing, so that everybody who hears him

can see him, and know who is the author of the strains that afford him

so much delight. He sings also at broad noonday, when everybody is out,

and is seldom heard before sunrise, while other birds are pouring forth

their souls in a united concert of praise. He waits until the sun is

up, and when most of the early performers have become silent, as if

determined to secure a good audience before exhibiting his powers.

The Bobolink, or Conquedle, has unquestionably great talents as a

musician. In the grand concert of Nature it is he who performs the

_recitative_ parts, which he delivers with the utmost fluency and

rapidity; and one must be a careful listener, not to lose many of his

words. He is plainly the merriest of all the feathered creation, almost

continually in motion, and singing upon the wing, apparently in the

greatest ecstasy of joy.

There is not a plaintive strain in his whole performance. Every sound

is as merry as the laugh of a young child; and one cannot listen to him

without fancying that he is indulging in some jocose raillery of his

companions. If we suppose him to be making love, we cannot look upon

him as very deeply enamored, but rather as highly delighted with his

spouse, and overflowing with rapturous admiration. The object of his

love is a neatly formed bird, with a mild expression of countenance, a

modest and amiable deportment, and arrayed in the plainest apparel. It

is evident that she does not pride herself upon the splendor of her

costume, but rather on its neatness, and on her own feminine graces.

She must be entirely without vanity, unless we suppose that it is

gratified by observing the pomp and display which are made by her

partner, and by listening to his delightful eloquence of song: for if

we regard him as an orator, it must be allowed that he is unsurpassed

in fluency and rapidity of utterance; and if we regard him only as a

musician, he is unrivalled in brilliancy of execution.

Vain are all attempts, on the part of other birds, to imitate his truly

original style. The Mocking-bird gives up the attempt in despair, and

refuses to sing at all when confined near one in a cage. I cannot look

upon him as ever in a very serious humor. He seems to be a lively,

jocular little fellow, who is always jesting and bantering, and when

half a dozen different individuals are sporting about in the same

orchard, I often imagine that they might represent the persons

dramatized in some comic opera. These birds never remain stationary

upon the bough of a tree, singing apparently for their own solitary

amusement; but they are ever in company, and passing to and fro, often

commencing their song upon the extreme end of the bough of an

apple-tree, then suddenly taking flight, and singing the principal part

while balancing themselves on the wing. The merriest part of the day

with these birds is the later afternoon, during the hour preceding

dewfall, and before the Robins and Thrushes commence their evening

hymn. Then, assembled in company, it would seem as if they were

practising a cotillon upon the wing, each one singing to his own

movements, as he sallies forth and returns,--and nothing can exceed

their apparent merriment.

The Bobolink usually commences his warbling just after sunrise, when

the Robin, having sung from the earliest dawn, brings his performance

to a close. Nature seems to have provided that the serious parts of her

musical entertainment in the morning shall first be heard, and that the

lively and comic strains shall follow them. In the evening this order

is reversed; and after the comedy is concluded, Nature lulls us to

meditation and repose by the mellow notes of the little Vesper-bird,

and the pensive and still more melodious strains of the solitary

Thrushes.

In pleasant, sunshiny weather, the Bobolink seldom flies without

singing, often hovering on the wing over the place where his mate is

sitting upon her ground-built nest, and pouring forth his notes with

great loudness and fluency. The Bobolink is one of our social birds,

one of those species that follow in the footsteps of man, and multiply

with the progress of agriculture. He is not a frequenter of the woods;

he seems to have no taste for solitude. He loves the orchard and the

mowing-field, and many are the nests which are exposed by the scythe of

the haymaker, if the mowing be done early in the season. Previously to

the settlement of America, these birds must have been comparatively

rare in the New England States, and were probably confined to the open

prairies and savannas in the northwestern territory.