Sere ci i iu a YY Pe | i sh ae i ‘aie. rare : : a oo - + ; , INTRODUCTION. Tue title of this work does not give the reader a full understanding of its scope and contents, as it treats of Scenes and Flowers as well as of Birds and Seasons. Its present form was adopted for the sake of brevity. My classification of Birds is wholly arbitrary, but not without signification. Im the Index I have eiven their scientific names, chiefly according to Nut- tall, preferring those which were used by our early writers on Ornithology, because the species can be more easily identified by those than by the Greek names applied to them in the new nomenclature. My essays are not biographies of the Birds. I treat of them chiefly as songsters, and speak only of those habits which render them useful, interesting, or pic- turesque. I have confined myself principally to my own personal observations, but have freely quoted from several authors. I ought to remark in this place that I am much indebted to Mr. John Burroughs, whose essays on Birds and kindred subjects in “The At- lantic Monthly” I formerly read with great pleasure. v1 INTRODUCTION. Mr, Burroughs is confessedly the most graphic and en- tertaining of our authors on Ornithology. I regret that I had not seen his book, “Wake Robin,” before this volume was in type, as the perusal of it would have improved my own pages. I would remind the reader that some parts of my book have previously appeared in print. WILSON FLAGG. ILLUSTRATIONS. [Printed by the Heliotype Process, after Views from Nature.] PAGE THE OLD HOMESTEAD OF GENERAL PUTNAM, IN DANVERS Frontispiece. VIEW OF CHARLES RIVER FROM THE FARM OF Mr. ANTHONY HOL- BROOK, IN AUBURNDALE - s - c : é : . 43 SCENE NEAR FRESH POND, IN CAMBRIDGE, ON CONCORD TURNPIKE 83 VIEW OF NEPONSET RIVER IN MATTAPAN . : : : - ls VIEW IN LYNN, LOOKING THROUGH A VISTA OF TREES ON A DESCEND- Ing Roap : : : : : : 5 : : : . 164 OLD ROAD, AS SEEN FROM THE HILL LEADING TO Spor PonpD, ON THE ROUTE FROM MEDFORD TO STONEHAM . ‘ 3 2 . 202 SCENE ON Bass RIVER, IN RYALL SIDE, BEVERLY . : : : 248 MILL ScENE IN BOXFORD. A : : . 5 . 5 eerie View or LANDSCAPE, INCLUDING THE SOUTH SIDE OF CapTAIN ENOCH Woop’s EstatE, IN WEST BOXFORD. : i : ; . doo VIEW OF OLD Winpine Roap In NortH ANDOVER : : : 364 “DEN ROCK,” IN ANDOVER, ON THE OLD SALEM TURNPIKE : . 403 View oF BrrcH Brook, IN Lynn . A 5 5 ° 5 3 431 fs — aie \ 4 1 " sor i * DI | : | ree i j fe¥Y ee - THE BIRDS AND SEASONS OF NEW ENGLAND. MUSIC OF BIRDS. AmMoNG civilized people those are the most cheerful and happy, if possessed of a benevolent heart and favored with the ordinary gifts of fortune, who have acquired by habit and education the power of deriving pleasure from the objects that lie immediately around them. But these sources of happiness are open to those only who are en- dowed with sensibility, and who have received a favora- ble intellectiial training. The more ordinary the mental and moral organization and culture of the individual, the more far-fetched and dear-bought must be his enjoyments. Nature has given us in full development only those appe- tites which are necessary to our physical well-being. She has left our moral powers and affections in the germ, to be developed by education and reflection. Hence that serene delight that comes chiefly from the exercise of the imagination and the moral sentiments can be felt only by persons of superior and peculiar refinement of mind. The ignorant and rude are dazzled and delighted by the display of gorgeous splendor, and charmed by loud and stirring sounds. But the more simple melodies and less attractive colors and forms, that appeal to the imagination for their principal effect, are felt only by individuals of a poetic temperament. 1 A Z MUSIC OF BIRDS. In proportion as we have been trained to be agreeably affected by the outward forms of nature and the sounds that proceed from the animate and the inanimate world are we capable of being happy without resorting to vulgar and costly recreations. Then will the aspects of nature, continually changing with the progress of the seasons, and the songs that enliven their march, satisfy that craving for agreeable sensations which would otherwise lead us away from humble and healthful pursuits to those of an artificial and exciting life. The value of these pleasures of sentiment is derived not so much from their cheapness as from their favorable moral influences, that improve and pleasantly exercise the mind without tasking its powers. Those quiet emotions, half musical and_ half poetical, which are awakened by the songs of birds, be- long to this class of refined enjoyments. But the music of birds, though delightful to all, con- veys active and durable pleasure only to those who have learned to associate with their notes, in connection with the scenes of nature, a crowd of interesting and romantic images. To many persons of this character it affords more delight than the most brilliant music of the concert or the opera. In vain will it be said as an objection, that the notes of birds have no charm save that of association, and do not equal the melody of a simple reed or flag- eolet. It is sufficient to reply that the most delight- ful influences of nature proceed from sights and sounds that appeal to a poetic sentiment through the medium of slight and almost insensible impressions made upon the eye and the ear. At the moment when these physical impressions exceed a certain mean, the spell is broken, and the enjoyment, if it continues, becomes sensual, not intellectual. How soon, indeed, would the songs of birds pall upon the ear if they were loud and brilliant like a band of instruments. It is simplicity that gives them their charm. MUSIC OF BIRDS. 3 As an illustration of the truth of this remark, I would say that simple melodies have among all people exercised a greater power over the imagination, though producing less pleasure to the ear, than louder and more complicated music. Nature employs a very small amount of physical agency to create sentiment, and when an excess is used a diminished effect is produced. Iam persuaded that the effect of our sacred music is injured by an excess of har- mony or too great a volume of sound. A loud crash of thunder deafens and terrifies, but its low and distant rum- bling produces a pleasant emotion of sublimity. The songs of birds are as intimately allied with poetry as with music. “Feathered Lyric” is a name that has been applied to the Lark by one of the English poets ; and the analogy is apparent when we consider how much the song of this bird resembles a lyrical ballad in its influence on the mind. Though the song of a bird is without words, how plainly does it suggest a long train of agreeable images of love, beauty, friendship, and home ! When a young person is affected with grief, he seldom fails, if endowed with a sensitive mind, to listen to the birds as sympathizers in his affliction. Through them the deities of the grove seem to offer him their conso- lation. By his companionship with the objects of nature all pleasing sights and sounds have become anodynes for his sorrow ; and those who have this mental alembic for turning grief into poetic melancholy cannot be reduced to despondency. This poetic sentiment exalts our pleas- ures and soothes our afflictions by some illusive charm, derived from religion or romance. Without this reflection of light from poetry, what is the passion of love, and what our love of beauty, but a mere gravitation ? The music of birds is modulated in pleasant unison with all the chords of affection and imagination, filling the soul with a lively consciousness of beauty and de- 4 MUSIC OF BIRDS. light. It soothes us with romantic visions of love when an ethereal sentiment of adoration as well as a passion, and of friendship when a passion and not an expediency. It reminds us of dear and simple adventures, and of the comrades who had part in them; of dappled mornings and of serene and glowing sunsets ; of sequestered nooks and of sunny seats in the wildwood; of paths by the waterside, and of flowers that smiled a bright welcome to our rambling ; of lingering departures from home, and - of old by-ways hedged with viburnums and overshadowed by trees that spread their perfume around our path to gladden our return. By this pleasant instrumentality has Nature provided for the happiness of all who have learned to be delighted with her works, and with the sound of those voices which she has appointed to com- municate to the human soul the joys of the inferior creation. BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. if THE singing-birds whose notes are familiar to us in towns and villages and in the suburbs of cities are stran- gers to the deep woods and solitary pastures. Our familiar birds follow in the wake of the pioneer of the wilderness, and increase in numbers with the clearing and settlement of the country, not from any feeling of dependence on the protection of man, but from the greater supply of insect food caused by the tilling of the ground. It is well known that the labors of the farmer cause an excessive multipli- cation of all those insects whose larvee are cherished in the soil, and of all that infest the garden and orchard. The farm is capable of supporting insects in the ratio of its capacity for producing fruit. These will multiply with their means of subsistence contained in and upon the earth ; and birds, if not destroyed by man, will increase with the insects that constitute their food. Hence we may explain the fact, which often excites surprise, that more singing-birds are seen in the suburbs of a great city than in the deep forest, where, even in the vocal season, the silence is sometimes melancholy. The species which are thus familiar in their habits, though but a small part of the whole number, include nearly all the singing-birds that are known to the generality 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 the uncultivated regions lying outside of the farm. Even these are rare in the depths of the forest. They live on the edge of the 6 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. wood and the half-wooded pasture. The birds of the gar- den and orchard have been frequently described, and are very generally known, though but little has been said of their powers and peculiarities of song. In the sketches that follow I have given particular attention to the vocal powers of the different birds, and have attempted to designate the part that each one performs in the grand hymn of Nature. THE SONG-SPARROW. The Song-Sparrow, one of our most familiar birds, claims our first attention as the earliest visitant and latest resident of all the tuneful band, and one that is universally known and admired. He is plain in his ves- ture, undistinguished from the female by any superiority of plumage. He comes forth in the spring and takes his departure in the autumn in the same suit of russet and eray by which he is always identified. In March, before the violet has ventured to peep out from the southern slope of the pasture or the sunny brow of the hill, while the northern skies are liable at any hour to pour down a storm of sleet and snow, the Song-Sparrow, beguiled by southern winds, has already appeared, 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, if not the sweetest songster, he has the merit of bearing to man the earliest tidings of the opening year, and of proclaim- ing the first vernal promises of the season. 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. BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 7 His haunts are fields half cultivated and bordered with wild shrubbery. He is somewhat more timid than the Hair-Bird, that comes close up to our doorsteps to find the crumbs that are swept from our tables. Though his voice is constantly heard in the garden and orchard, he selects a retired spot for his nest, preferring not to trust his progeny to the doubtful mercy of the lords of crea- tion. In some secure retreat, under a tussock of moss or a tuft of low shrubbery, the female sits upon her nest of soft dry grass, containing four or five eggs of a green- ish-white surface covered with brownish specks. Begin- ning in April, she rears two and often three broods 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 rank with our principal singing-birds, were it not for the remarkable variations in his song, in which I think he is equalled by no other bird. Of these variations there are six or seven that may be distinctly recognized, differing enough to be considered separate tunes, but they are all based upon the same theme. The bird does not warble these in regular succession. It is in the habit of repeating one of them several times, then leaves it and repeats another in a similar manner. Mr. Charles 8. Paine, of East Randolph, Massachusetts, was, I believe, the first to observe this habit of the Song-Sparrow. He took note, on one occasion, of the number of times a par- ticular bird sang each of the tunes. As he had numbered them, the bird sang No. 1, 21 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. He made the same ex- periment with a dozen different individuals; and was confident from these trials that each male has his seven songs, or variations of the theme, and they are all equally irregular in the order of singing them. 8 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. After reading Mr. Paine’s letter, I listened carefully to the Song-Sparrow, in the summer of 1857, that I might learn to distinguish the different tunes, as reported by him. I had never thought of it before; but in less than a week I could distinctly recognize the whole seven, and was convinced that his observations were perfectly correct. It is remarkable that when one powerful singer takes up a particular tune, other birds in the vicinity will follow with the same. These are mostly in triple time, some in common time, while in others the time could not be distinguished. Each tune, however, con- sists of four bars or strains, sometimes five, though late in the season the song is frequently broken off at the end of the third strain. This habit of varying his notes through so many changes, and the singularly fine intona- tions of many of them, entitle the Song-Sparrow to a very high rank as a singing-bird. There is a plain difference in the expression of these several variations. The one which I have marked No. 3 is very plaintive, and is in common time. No. 2 is the one which I have most frequently heard. No. 5 is quer- ulous and unmusical. There is a remarkable precision in the Song-Sparrow’s notes, and the finest singers are those which, in the language of musicians, display the least execution. Some blend their notes together so rapidly and promiscuously, and use so many operatic flourishes, that if all were like them it would be impossible to distin- guish the seven different variations in the song of this bird. 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 they are the offspring of mere caprice, I cannot determine. Nor have I learned whether a certain hour of the day or a certain state of the weather predisposes the bird to sing a par- ticular tune. This point may perhaps be determined by BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 9 some future observer, who may discover that the birds of this species have their matins and their vespers, their songs of rejoicing and their notes of complaint, of court- ship when in presence of their mate, and of encourage- ment and solace when she is sitting upon her nest. Since Nature has a benevolent object in every instinct bestowed upon her creatures,.it 1s not probable that this habit of the Song-Sparrow is one that serves no important end in his life and habits. All the variations of his song are given below; and though individuals differ in their sing- ing, the notes will afford a good general idea of the sey- eral tunes. 9.0 © 0 6p 0 6 0 guttural. ws = aaa et e ee e = eee aoe LS ee | i} ee6600606600 —- P tr pes Nes. Joyful. “enperepeceee. “0:0: ps (ima See No. 4. ging _O: _P+ ve Ee sf [eaebeeees oe zreeeeriee see: = Er ef weg Ua Tae Fe diminuendo. pe SHeHtInte is =| sreneesneeee | (gage == No. 6. Subdued and querulous. - Bia oP it) Coes try) try tr a ( Se ae aaa 10 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. No. 7. Berle Norn. —The notes marked guttural seem to me to be performed by a rapid trilling of these notes with their octave. No bird sings constantly in so regular time as is represented above, and the intervals between the high notes are very irregular. Both the time and the tune are in great measure ad libitwm. THE VESPER-SPARROW. Soon after the arrival of the Song-Sparrow, before the flowers are yet conspicuous in the meadows, we are ereeted by the more fervent and lengthened notes of the Vesper-Bird, poured forth with a peculiarly pensive mod- ulation. This species resembles the Song-Sparrow, but may be distinguished when on the wing by two white lateral feathers in the tail. The chirp, or complaining note, of the Song-Sparrow is louder and pitched on a lower key. The Vesper-Bird is the less familiar of the two, and, when both are singing at the same time, will be seen to occupy a position more remote from the house. In several places they are distinguished by the names of Ground-Sparrow and Bush-Sparrow, from their supposed different habits of placing their nests. I believe, how- ever, that while the Song-Sparrow always builds upon the ground, the Vesper-Bird builds indifferently upon the ground or in a bush. The Vesper-Bird, of the two species, attracts more general attention to his notes, because he sings a longer though more monotonous song, and warbles with more fervency. His notes resemble those of the Canary, but they are more subdued and plaintive, and have a reedy sound which is not perceptible in the Canary’s tones. BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. at: This bird is somewhat periodical in his singing habits, confining his lays in some measure to certain hours of the day and conditions of the weather. The Song-Sparrow sings about equally during every hour from morning till night, and the different performers do not always join in concert. This habit renders the little songster more com- panionable, but at the same time causes his notes to be less regarded than those of the Vesper-Bird, who sings in concert with others of his kind, and at more regular periods. The Vesper-Bird joins at day-spring with all his kin- dred in the general anthem of morn, after which he sings occasionally during the day, especially at an hour when it is still and cloudy, but most fervently during the sun’s decline until dusk. Hence is derived the name it bears, from its evening hymn, or vespers. There are particular states of the weather that call out the songsters of this species and make them tuneful, as when rain is suddenly followed by sunshine, or when a clear sky is suddenly darkened by clouds, presenting an occasional morn and an occasional even. In this respect these birds are not peculiar, but by singing together in numbers their habit is more noticeable. We seldom hear one of them singing alone. When one begins, all others in the vicinity im- mediately join him. The usual resorts of the Vesper-Bird are the hayfields and pastures, from which he has derived the name of Grass-Finch. His voice is heard frequently by rustic roadsides, where he picks up a considerable part of his subsistence ; and it is remarkable that this songster more frequently sings from a fence, a post, or a rail than from a tree ora bush. This is the little bird that so generally serenades us during an evening walk at a short distance from the town, and not so near the woods as the haunts of the Thrushes. When we go out into the country on 12 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. pleasant days in June or July, at nightfall we hear mul- titudes of them singing sweetly from many different points in the fields and farms. THE HAIR-BIRD. ‘ A gentle and harmless little bird, attracting attention chiefly by his tameness and familarity, chirping at all hours, but without a very melodious song, is the Hair- Bird, belonging to the family of Sparrows, but differing from all the others in many of his habits. He is one of the smallest of the tribe, of an ashen-brown color above and grayish-white beneath. He wears a little cap or turban of velvety-brown upon his head, and by this mark he is readily distinguished from his kindred. Relying on his diminutive size for security, he comes quite up to our doorstep, mindless of the people who are assembled near it, and, fearless of danger, picks up the scattered crumbs and seeds. His voice is not heard in the spring so early as that of the Song-Sparrow and the Bluebird. He lives chiefly upon seeds, though lke other granivorous birds he feeds his young with larvee. This is a general practice among the seed-eaters, in order to provide their young with soft.and digestible food. Nature has provided in a differ- ent manner, however, for the Pigeon tribe. The parent bird softens the food in its own crop before it is given to the offspring. From the peculiar manner in which the young are fed comes the expression “sucking doves.” It is common to speak disparagingly of the Hair-Bird, as if he were good for nothing, without beauty and with- out song. He is despised even by epicures, because his weight of flesh is not worth a charge of powder and shot. Though he is contemptuously styled the “ Chipping-Spar- row,” on account of his shrill note, this name I shall never consent to apply to him. His voice is no mean accompaniment to the general chorus which may be heard BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 13 on every still morning before sunrise during May and June. His continued trilling note is to this warbling band like the octave flute, as heard in a grand concert of artificial instruments. The voices of numbers of his spe- cies, which are the first to be heard and the last to become silent in the morning, serve to fill up the pauses in this sylvan anthem like a running accompaniment in certain musical compositions. How little soever the Hair-Bird may be valued as a songster, his voice, I am sure, would be most sadly missed, were it nevermore to be heard charmingly blending with the louder voices of other chor- isters. How often, on still sultry nights in summer, when hardly a breeze was stirring, and when the humming of the moth might be plainly heard as it glided by my open window, have I been charmed by the note of this lttle bird, ut- tered trillingly from the branch of a neighboring tree. He seems to be the sentinel whom Nature has appointed to watch for the first gleam of dawn, which he always faith- fully announces before any other bird is awake. Two or three strains from his octave pipe are the signal for a gen- eral awakening of the birds, and one by one they join the song, until the whole air resounds with an harmonious medley of voices. The Hair-Bird has a singular habit of sitting on the eround while thus chirping at early dawn; but I am confident he is perched in a tree during the night. The nest is most frequently placed upon an apple-tree, or upon some tall bush, seldom more than ten feet from the ground. I have found it in the vinery upon the trunk of an elm. It is very neatly constructed of the fibres of roots firmly woven together, and beautifully lined with fine soft hair, whence his name. It is unsurpassed in neat- ness and beauty by the nest of any other bird. The eggs are four in number, of a pale blue with dark spots. 14 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. THE AMERICAN GOLDFINCH. During all the pleasant days of autumn, when the thistle and sunflower are ripening their seeds, after the songs of the birds have ceased, and we greet them only as friends after the concert is over, we hear the plaintive chirping of the Hemp-Birds, and see the frequent flashing of their golden plumage among the thistles and golden- rods. Like butterflies they are seen in all the open past- ures and meadows that abound in compound flowers, not in flocks, but scattered in great numbers, and always, when flying from one field to another, uttering their singularly plaintive but cheerful cry. This is so sweetly modulated that, when many of them are assembled, the songs of early summer seem to be temporarily revived. They are very familiar and active, always flitting about our flower- gardens when they abound in marigolds and asters. The Hemp-Bird bears considerable resemblance to the Canary in his habits and the notes of his song. Being deficient in compass and variety, he cannot be ranked with the finest of our songsters. But he has great sweet- ness of tone, and is equalled by few birds in the rapidity of his execution. His note of complaint is also like that of the Canary, and is heard at almost all times of the year. He utters, when flying, a rapid series of notes during the repeated undulations of his flight, and they seem to be uttered with each effort he makes to rise. The female does not build her nest before the first broods of the Robin and the Song-Sparrow have flown. Mr. Augustus Fowler, of Danvers, thinks, from his ob- servation of the habits of these birds when feeding their young, that the cause of this delay is “that they would be unable to find in the spring those milky seeds which are the necessary food for their young,” and takes occasion to allude to that beneficent law of Nature pro- BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 15 viding that these birds “should not bring forth their young until the time when the seeds used by them for food have passed into the milk, and may be easily dis- solved by the stomach.” These little 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 con- siderable 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 build their nests. I am inclined to believe that this is the time of their courtship, and that they have a purpose in their 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 their numbers in rapid succession, until all are singing at once, and then in the same gradual manner becoming silent. One voice leads on another, the numbers multiplying, until they make a loud shout which dies away gradually, and a single voice winds up the chorus. These concerts are repeated at intervals for several days, ending probably with the period of courtship. A singular habit of the Hemp-Bird is that of building a nest, and then tearing it to pieces, before any eggs have 16 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. been laid in it, and using the materials to make a new nest in another place. When I was a student I repeat; edly observed this operation in some Lombardy poplars that grew before my study windows. I thought the male bird only addicted to this habit, and that it might be his method of amusing himself before his mate is ready to occupy the nest. This is made of cotton, the down of the fern, and other soft materials woven together with threads or the fibres of bark, and lined 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. THE PURPLE FINCH OR AMERICAN LINNET. The American Linnet is almost a new acquaintance of many people in Eastern Massachusetts. In my early days, which were passed in Essex County, I seldom met one in my rambles. It is now very common in this region, and has been more generally observed since the custom of planting the spruce and the fir in our gardens and enclos- ures. The Linnet, though not early in building its nest, is sometimes heard to sing earlier even than the Song- Sparrow. I have frequently heard his notes in March; and once, in a mild season, I heard one warbling cheer- ily on the 18th of February. But the Linnet does not persevere like the Song-Sparrow and other early birds. He may sing on a fine day in March, and you may not hear him again before the middle of April. Soon after that time he becomes a very constant singer. The notes of this bird are very simple and melodious, delivered without precision, and different individuals dif- fer exceedingly in capacity. It is generally believed that the young males are the best singers, and that age dimin- ishes their vocal powers. This is the supposition of Mr. BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. TF Nuttall; but I have not been able to test the truth of it by my own observation. The greater number utter only a few strains, resembling the notes of the Brigadier. These are constantly repeated during the greater part of the day. The song usually consists of four or five strains, very much alike; but when the bird is animated he mul- tiplies his notes ad libitum, varying the modulation only by greater emphasis. I have not observed that the Lin- net is more prone to sing in the morning and evening than at any other hour. The Linnet is a somewhat eccentric bird in his ways. He is usually high up in an elm or other tall tree when he sings, and almost out of sight, like the Brigadier. Hence he is as often heard in the elms in the city as in the country. He sings according to no rules, at no particular hour of the day, with but little regard to sea- son, and utters notes that are wholly wanting in precision. His song is without a theme, and seems to be a sort of Jantasia. We may often be seen sitting on a fence war- bling with ecstasy and keeping his wings in rapid vibra- tion all the while. He is also regardless of the mischief he may do. He feeds upon the flower-buds of the elm and then upon those of the pear-tree, thus damaging our gardens and keeping himself at a safe distance from the angry horticulturist after he has concluded his feast. I have seen the Linnet frequently in confinement, which he very cheerfully bears; but he will not sing if he be placed near a Canary-Bird, nor does he at any time sing so well as in a state of freedom. He likewise changes his plumage; and soon, instead of a little brown bird with crimson neck, you see one variously mottled with brown and buff. The finest and most prolonged strains are delivered by the Linnet while on the wing. On such occasions only does he sing with fervor. While perched on a tree his song is usually short and not greatly B 18 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. varied. I think there may be less difference than is com- monly supposed in the powers of individuals, and that the songs of the same warbler vary with his feelings. If you closely watch one on a tree while singing, he may be observed suddenly to take flight, and while pois- ing himself in the air, though still advancing, to pour out a continued strain of melody with all the rapture of a Skylark. The male American Linnet is crimson on the head, neck, and throat, dusky on the upper parts of his body, and beneath somewhat straw-colored. It is remarkable that some of the males are wanting in the crimson head and neck, being plainly clad, like the female. These are supposed to be old birds, and the loss of color is attrib- uted to age. I am doubtful of this, for it can hardly be supposed that any bird can escape the gunner long enough to become gray with age. The only nests of this bird which I have seen were upon spruce-trees. The eggs are of a pale green with dark spots of irregular size. THE PEABODY-BIRD. In the northern parts of New England only are the inhabitants familiar with the habits of the Peabody-Bird, or White-throated Sparrow. I have seen it, however, in Cambridge ; and during a season when the currant- worm was very destructive, one individual came fre- quently into my garden and employed himself in pick- ing the caterpillars from a row of currant-bushes. As the fruit was then ripened, or partially ripe, his appear- ance so late in the season led me to infer that he had probably a nest somewhere in the Cambridge woods. This is a large Sparrow, and a very fine singing-bird. Samuels says: “The song of this species is very beauti- ful. It is difficult of description, but resembles nearly the BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 19 syllables ‘chea, dée de ; dé-d-de, dé-d-de, dé-d-de, dé-d-de, uttered first loud and clear, and rapidly falling in tone and decreasing in volume. This is chanted during the morning and the latter part of the day. I have often heard it at different hours of the night, when I have been encamped in the deep forest, and the effect at that time was indescribably sweet and plaintive. The fact that the bird sings often in the night has given it the name of the Nightingale in many places, and the title is well earned.” The inhabitants of Maine mention this bird as singing late in the season. This is caused by his delay in build- ing his nest, which is not done before June. The words used by the Peabody-Bird in his song are thus described in that State : — (s=— All day whittling, whittling, whittling, whittling. i) me = SE. ( at lise —|-e eo SSS SES rap THE EARLY FLOWERS. AmonG the vernal flowers are usually classed all those which in propitious seasons are open during the month of April, like the ground-laurel, the draba verna, and the hepatica, also during the month of May, like the anemones, violets, bellworts, and Solomon’s seals, which are among the true Mayflowers. Within the space of these two months the most delicate and interesting flow- ers of the whole year come to perfection, beginning with the epigsea and hepatica, and bringing along in their rear myriads of bellworts, ginsengs, anemones, saxifrages, and columbines, until the procession is closed by the cranes- bill, that leads forth the brilliant host of summer. The vernal flowers are mostly herbaceous and minute. They grow in sheltered situations on the southern slopes of declivities and the sunny borders of a wood, and re- quire but a short period of heat and sunshine to per- fect their blossoms. They are generally pale in their tints, many of them white, and often tinged with deli- cate shades of blue or lilac. The anemones of our woods are our true Mayflowers. They seldom appear before the first of May, and there is hardly a solitary one to be seen after the first week in June. The ground-laurel, vul- garly called Mayflower, is usually in perfection in the middle of April, and, except very far north, is out of bloom by the middle of May. There are some of our early flowers that remain in perfection during a part of the summer, until they lose their charms by constantly intruding themselves upon our notice. Such are the com- THE EARLY FLOWERS. 21 mon buttercups, which are favorites of children when they first appear, but shine like gilded toys, and sym- bolize no charming sentiment to endear them to our sight. One of the earliest flowers of April, appearing about two weeks later than the ground-laurel, on the sunny slope of a hill that is protected by woods, and continuing to put forth its delicate blossoms during about five weeks from its first appearance, is the hepatica, or liverwort. They are the flowers that have generally rewarded my earliest botanical rambles, and every year I behold them with increased delight. They are often seen in crowded clusters, half concealed by dry oak-leaves, that were ele- vated by the flowers as they developed their petals. They vary in color from purple or lilac to lighter shades of the same tints. Appearing in heads that often contain more than twenty flowers, they form a pleasing contrast with the little wood anemones that spangle the mossy knolls with their solitary drooping blossoms. The rue- leaved anemone differs from both of these. More lively in its appearance than either, it bears several upright flowers upon one stalk, with such a look of animation that they seem to smile upon us from their green, shady nooks. Not the least charming of our Mayflowers is the houstonia, which has no English name that has become popular. As early as the middle of May its flowers are often so thickly strewn over the fields as at a distance to resemble a thin veil of snow. This plant is almost as delicate as the finer mosses, and its flowers, though minute, are rendered conspicuous by the brilliant golden hue of their centre, that melts into the cerulean white- ness of the corolla. About the first of May a few flow- ers of this species peep out from the ground, as in early evening a few stars are seen twinkling through ee THE EARLY FLOWERS. the diminishing light. They multiply until they glitter in the meads and valleys like the heavenly hosts at midnight. By degrees they slowly disappear until June scatters them from the face of the earth, as morning disperses the starry lights of the firmament. It may seem remarkable that the earliest flowers that come up under a frosty sky, and are often enveloped in snow, should, notwithstanding this apparently hardening expos- ure, exceed all others in delicacy. Such are the ground- laurel, the anemone, and the houstonia, among our native plants, and the snowdrop, the crocus, and the hyacinth, among exotics. Children, who are unaffected lovers of flowers, have always shown a preference for those of early spring, when they are more attractive on account of their nov- elty, and seem more beautiful as the harbingers of a warmer season. After the earth has remained bleak and desolate for half the year, every beautiful thing in nature has a renewed charm when it reappears, and a single violet by the wayside inspires a little child with more delight than he would feel if surrounded by a whole gar- den of flowers in summer. Parties of young children are annually called out by the first warm sunshine in May to hunt for early flowers. The botanist is also out among the birds and children, peeping into green dells, under shelving rocks, or in sunny nooks, brushing away the dry autumn leaves to find the pale blue liverwort, dipping his hands into erys- tal streams for aquatic plants, or examining the droop- ing branches of the andromeda for its rows of pearly gems. He thinks not meanly of his pursuit, though he finds for. his companions the village children, and the poor herbwoman, who is gathering salads for the market. From her lips he may obtain some important knowledge, and derive a moral hint that the sum of our enjoyments THE EARLY FLOWERS. 23 is proportional to the simplicity of our habits and pur- suits, and that this poor herbwoman, who lives chiefly under the open windows of heaven, enjoys more happi- ness than many envied persons who are prisoned in a palace and shackled with gold. By talking with the children he may learn the locality of some rare plant, a new phase in the aspect of nature, or discover some for- gotten charm that once hovered round certain old famil- iar scenes to whose cheering influence he had become blunted, but which is now revived by witnessing its effects on the susceptible minds of the young. We have to lament in this climate the absence of many beautiful flowers which are associated in our minds with the opening of spring by our familiarity with English lit- erature. We search in vain over our green meads and sunny hillsides for the daisy and the cowslip, that spangle the fields in Great Britain and gladden the sight of the English cottager. We have read of them until they seem like the true tenants of our own fields; and when on a pleasant ramble we do not find them, there is a void in the landscape, and the fields seem to be wanting in their fairest ornaments. Thus poetry, while it inspires the mind with sentiments that increase the sum of our happiness, often binds our affections to objects we can never behold and shall never caress. The daisy and cowslip are remem- bered in our reading as the bright-eyed children of Spring, and they emblemize those little members of our former family circle of whom we have heard but have never seen, who exist only in the pensive history of the youth- ful group whose number is imperfect without them. In our gardens only do we find the pensive snow- drop, the poetic narcissus, the crocus, and the hyacinth. There only is the pansy, or tri-colored violet, which adorns the fresh chaplets of April and blends its colors with the yellow sheaves of autumn. There only are the lily of 24. THE EARLY FLOWERS. the valley, the white Bethlehem star, and the blue-eyed periwinkle. The heath is neither in our fields nor in our gardens. The flowers of classic lands and many plants which are sacred to the muse are not in the fields and valleys of the new continent. Our native flowers, for the most part, are rendered sacred only by the recollections of childhood, not by poetry or romance. The anemone, the houstonia, and the bellwort look up to us from their mossy beds full of the light of the happy days of our youth; but the flowers which have been sung by the Grecian or Roman muse belong to other climes, and our fields do not know them. ROCKS. Ir is not necessary that an object should be intrinsi- cally beautiful, like a collection of water, to add a pleas- ing feature to the landscape. Though rocks considered apart from Nature are unsightly, no scenery is complete without them. Toa prospect they afford variety which it would be difficult to obtain from any other objects. Without them there is a want of those sudden transitions from the smooth to the rough, from the level to the pre- cipitous, from the beautiful to the wild, and from the tame to the expressive, which are essential to a perfect landscape. It is only among rocks that the evergreen ferns, those beautiful accompaniments of a rustic retreat, are found growing abundantly. There is no more beauti- ful sight than a series of almost perpendicular rocks cov- ered on all sides by ferns, with their peculiarly graceful foliage, and here and there a rill trickling down their sur- face and forming channels through the evergreen mosses. The solitary glens formed by these rocks could not be imi- tated by any artifice; and their jutting precipices afford prospects unequalled by the gentle elevations of a rolling landscape. In a country where rocks are wanting, the land rises and sinks in gradual declivities, and prospects are difficult to be obtained except from lofty elevations. There is so much that is attractive in the abruptness of rocky scenery, especially when half covered by trees and other vegetation, that some authors have attributed its picturesque character to its rudeness and roughness. I should attribute this interesting expression to the mani- 2 26 ROCKS. fest facility which abrupt situations afford both for pros- pect and for pleasant secluded retreats. Large clefts produced by the parting of the two sides of an enor- mous rock furnish dells, — often perfect gardens of wild- flowers, — bursting on the sight like an oasis on a dry waste. In these places there is always a remarkable verdure, as the rains that pour down the slopes conduct fertility to the soil at their base. A rocky surface, there- fore, is productive of a greater variety of shrubs and wild- flowers than a plain or rolling country of similar soil and climate. There are many plants whose native localities are the tops and sides of rocky cliffs and precipices. Such are the saxifrage, the cistus, the toadflax, and the beautiful pedate violet. The graceful Canadian columbine is found chiefly among the clefts of rocks, like a little tender animal, nest- ling under their protection, and drawing nourishment from the soil that has accumulated in their hollows. To satisfy ourselves of the number and variety of plants that may grow spontaneously upon a single rock, let us con- struct one in fancy thus enamelled by the hand of Nature. We will picture to ourselves a craggy precipice, rising thirty or forty feet out of a wet meadow, and forming in its irregular ascent many oblique and perpendicular sides, which have collected upon their upper surface sev- eral inches of soil. A grove of pines and birches covers the summit, with an undergrowth of various shrubs, such as the whortleberry, the wood-pyrus, the spirea, and the mountain andromeda. Here, too, the bayberry and sweet fern mingle their fragrance with the odors of the pines. The rocks, in the driest places, are covered with a bedding of gray lichen, which is a perfect hygrometer, breaking like glass under our footsteps when the atmos- phere is dry, but yielding like velvet when it contains the least moisture. The cup-moss grows abundantly along ROCKS. rath with it, and in moist situations the green, delicate hair- moss, the same that covers the roofs of very old buildings. The rain has washed down from the summit constant de- posits from trees and shrubs, birds and quadrupeds, and formed a superficies of good soil on all parts of the rock where it could be retained. On the almost bare surface grows the beautiful feather-grass, supported only by the soil that has accumulated about its roots. The mountain-laurel luxuriates upon these natural ter- races, by which we descend to the meadow at the base of the rock. But this evergreen, with its magnificent clusters of flowers, is not the most attractive object, for the little springs that issue from the crevices of the rock have brought out a variety of ferns and lycopodiums that cover its sides with their green fronds, like the tiles on the roof of a house. Some oaks and beeches project fantasti- cally from the sides of. the cliff, which is covered with in- numerable vines. Beside the beautiful things that cluster at our feet, and the little winged inhabitants native to the situation, made attractive by their various forms, colors, and motions, this rock gives additional extent to the prospect of the surrounding country, and affords many different views from the various openings through its wood and shrubbery. Such are the beauties and advantages multiplied about a mere rock. But in my description I have omitted to notice the grotto formed by the shelving of rocks, so de- lightful to the traveller who seeks shelter from the sultry heat of noon, or to one who only wishes to gratify a poetic sentiment. Rocky scenery cannot fail to suggest to the mind the various scenes and incidents of romantic adventure; and I believe the difficulties and dangers it presents to the traveller magnify the interest attending it. I have often seen a whole party eager to obtain pos- session of a flower that was growing out of the edge of a 28 ROCKS. rocky cliff. Each one would feel a desire to climb upon its sides, and to obtain a resting-place upon its dangerous summit. These circumstances stimulate the adventurous spirit, and become picturesque when represented on can- vas, by affording the same agreeable excitement to the imagination. Hence the imaginative as well as the ad- venturous are delighted with this kind of scenery, that arouses the enterprise of the one and awakens the poetical feelings of the other. What do we care for a scene, how- ever beautiful, which is so tame as to offer no exercise for the imagination? Rocks, by increasing the inequalities of the surface, proportionally multiply the ideas and im- ages that are associated with a landscape. It is not an uninteresting inquiry, why a prospect beheld from a rocky cliff yields us more pleasure than the same beheld from an even slope. Is it more poetical, when we partake of any such enjoyment, to be discon- nected from objects immediately around us? Or, when standing upon a rock that projects from the surface of the ground, may we not experience an illusive feeling of elevation? On the northern coast of Massachusetts Bay are many grand and delightful views of the ocean from points on the neighboring hills and eminences. Some of these views are unsurpassed in beauty. I have repeatedly observed that parties of pleasure, when making an excur- sion on the hills, are not satisfied with a view of the sea and the landscape until they have beheld it from some towering rock. There is probably a poetic feeling of isolation attending us when standing upon a rock that increases the emotions, whether of beauty or sublimity, which are excited by the prospect. Any one who has rambled over the bald hills that bound this shore can bear witness to the power of such rude scenery to magnify the sentiments that spring from the aspect of desolation, They are felt in these places, ROCKS. 29 unaccompanied by the melancholy that attends us on surveying a wide scene of ruins. Here the appearance of desolation is sufficient to produce a sentiment of grand- eur; but while surrounded by the evidences appearing in a distant view of a fertile and prosperous country, we are equally affected with a sense of cheerful exaltation. The most beautiful garden that wealth and taste could design would not afford so much of the luxury of senti- ment as a ramble over these bald hills affords to one whose mind is rightly attuned for such enjoyments. It is evident that the hills without the rocks would be des- titute of one of their most charming features. From the sight of the rocks comes likewise that feeling of alliance with the past ages of the world which tends greatly to elevate the mind with sentiments of grandeur. The New England stone-wall, as a feature in landscape scenery, 1s generally considered a deformity; yet it can- not be denied that the same lines of wooden fence would mar the beauty of our prospect in a still greater degree. On account of the loose manner in which the stones are laid one upon another, as well as the character of the materials, this wall harmonizes with the rude aspects of nature better than any kind of masonry. It seems to me less of a deformity than a trimmed hedge or any other kind of a fence, except in ornamented grounds, of which I do not treat. In wild pastures and lands devoted to common rustic labor, the stone-wall is the most pictu- resque boundary-mark that has yet been invented. A trimmed hedge in such places would present to the eye an intolerable formality. One of the charms of the loose stone-wall is the mani- fest ease with which it may be overleaped. It menaces no infringement upon our liberty. When we look abroad upon the face of a country subdivided only by long lines of loose stones, and overgrown by vines and shrubbery, 30 ROCKS. we feel no sense of constraint. The whole boundless prospect is ours. An appearance that cherishes this feel- ing of liberty is essential to the beauty of landscape ; for no man can thoroughly enjoy a scene from which he is excluded. Fences are deformities of prospect which we are obliged to use and tolerate. But the loose stone-wail only is expressive of that freedom which is grateful to the traveller and the rambler. It may be remarked that no inconsiderable share of the interest added to a prospect by the presence of rocks arises from their connection with the past ages of the world. They are indeed the monuments of the antedilu- vian period; and no man who is acquainted with the most commonly received geological facts, when wandering among these relics of the mysterious past, can fail to be inspired with those emotions of sublimity that proceed less from the creations of poetry than from the wonders of science. MARCH. To the inhabitants of a variable climate, like our own, the weather is at all times one of the most interesting themes of speculation ; but at no period of the year does it come more directly home to our feelings than in March. We know that there is a new sign in the heavens, and the altitude of the sun in his meridian seems plainly to assure us of the comforts of spring. But the aspect of the heavens is constantly changing, the winds ever veer- ing, clouds alternating with sunshine, wind with calm, and rain with snow; so that we are never sure, on a bland morning in March, when the sun is shining almost with the fervor of summer, that we may not be overtaken by a snow-storm before noonday, or the cold of the Arctic Circle before sunset. Any one of the three winter months, though usually cold and stormy, may once in a few years be mild and pleasant from beginning to end; but March preserves the same variable and boisterous character from year to year, without deviating from its precedents. It is the only month when day’s harbingers never fulfil their promises, — when the rosy hours that come up with the morning and the fair sisters that weave the garlands of evening are all deceivers. Though the present time is nominally the spring of the year, there is not yet a flower in the fields or gar- dens, and the buds of the trees are hardly swollen with waking vegetation. The wild-flowers are still buried under the snows and ices of winter, and the grass has begun to look green only under the southern protection 32 MARCH. of the walls and fences. Many of the early birds, fol- lowing the southerly winds that often prevail for a few days, and tempted by the bright sunshine of the season, have arrived from their winter haunts, and sing and chirp alternately, as if they were debating whether to remain here or return to a more genial clime. It is a remark- able instinct that prompts so many species of birds to leave their pleasant abiding-places at the south, where every agreeable condition of climate, shelter, and pro- vision for their wants is present, and press onward into the northern regions, before the rigors of winter have been subdued, and while they are still liable to perish with cold or starvation. Often with anxiety have I watched these little bewildered songsters who have so unseasonably returned, when, after commencing their morning lays as if they believed the vernal promises of dawn, they were obliged to flee into the depths of the woods to find shelter from a driving snow-storm. It may seem remarkable that before vegetation has awakened there should be a revival of some of the in- sect tribes ; but in warm, sheltered situations many small flies may be seen, either newly hatched or revived by the heat of the sun. They do not seek food, but crawl about in dry places, sometimes rising into the air and drowsily and awkwardly exercising their wings. So exposed are these minute creatures to the mercy of the climate, that Nature has made them insusceptible of injury from the severest cold. Many species, though enclosed in a mass of solid ice, may be revived by gradual heat and fly abroad as gayly as if they had been refreshed by sleep. But the period of life assigned to the insect race is very short, and before the arrival of winter the brief and joy- ous existence of nearly all the species is terminated, and their offspring in an embryo state lie torpid until a new spring awakes them into life. MARCH. 33 Our climate, being a discordant mixture of the weather of two opposite latitudes pouring their winds alternately upon our territory, is the most variable and deceitful in the world. Alternating with each other and struggling as it were for the mastery are two winds,—one that sweeps across the Canadas and brings with it the cold of the polar regions, another that comes from the Gulf of Mexico and brings here the summer breezes of the tropics. No natural barrier is interposed to check their progress whenever any meteoric influence may urge them onward. The prevalence of a moderate temperature in this part of the country during a calm, either in spring or autumn, proves this to be the true weather of our lati- tude. The north and south winds are intruders that spoil the comfort we might otherwise enjoy in the open air at all seasons except the three months of winter. Our climate may, therefore, not unaptly be compared to a village that is peopled by quiet and peaceable inhabit- ants, but visited by troublesome people from the adjoining villages, who by their quarrels with each other keep it in a constant uproar, leaving the villagers only an occasional respite during their absence. March is persistent only in its variableness. If it be cold, heat will soon succeed ; if we have clouds, they will soon bring along a clear sky. We see none of those mel- ancholy clouds, so common in the latter part of autumn, that remain for weeks brooding over the landscape, as if the heavens were hung in mourning for the departure of summer, —none of that ominous darkness in the glens and valleys, denoting that the sun has at length sur- rendered to the frosty conqueror of the earth. Though March is colder, it has more light than November. The sun daily increases in power, and the snow that remains upon the earth renders the effect of his rays more brill- lant and animating. The clouds of this month are sel- 2* c 34 MARCH. dom motionless. They are borne along rapidly by the brisk winds, now enveloping the landscape in gloom, then suddenly illuminating it with sunshine, and pro- ducing that constant play of light and shade which is peculiar to the early spring. During the occasional days of pleasant serenity that occur in March, we begin to look about us among the sheltered retreats in the woods and mountains, to watch the earliest budding of vegetation. Seldom, however, do we find a flower outside of the gardens; but many a ereen herb, that has been preserved under the snow or under the protection of shrubbery, may be seen creeping upon the surface, and spreading its delicate verdure upon the brown turfs. There the leaves of the strawberry and the cinqfoil are as green as in summer, and the tall hypericum, which is as it were a tree in summer, becomes in winter and spring a creeping vine, with foli- age as fine as that of a heath. At such times, while saun- tering about the fields, rejoicing in what seems to be a true revival of spring, the fierce north-wind begins his raging anew, and ere another morning the birds lie con- cealed in the depths of the forest, and all hearts are saddened by the universal aspect of winter. The change that has taken place in the appearance of the sun at his rising, since the opening of this month, may be regarded as one of the usual indications of the reviving spring. The atmosphere, on clear mornings, is more heavily laden with vapors than is usual at the same hour in winter. The exhalations of the preceding day have been descending in frosty dews by night upon the plains, and while gathered thickly about the hori- zon yield to the first rays of the sun a tint of purple and violet, like the dawn of a summer morning. The sun in midwinter, when there are no vapors on the lakes and meadows, after the cold winds have frozen every MARCH. 3D source of exhalant moisture, rises into a clear, transparent atmosphere. As spring advances, and the sun rises higher, the evaporation increases, the atmosphere in the morning becomes charged with prismatic vapors, and every mead and valley is crowned at sunrise with wreaths of mist adorned with the hues of the rainbow. The crimson haze that accompanies the dawn denotes that the icy fountains are unlocked, and that the lakes and rivulets are again pouring their dewy offerings to the skies. March is an unpleasant month for rambling. There is but little to tempt the lover of Nature, in either field or wood, to examine her treasures, or to enjoy the lux- ury of climate; but there is still a motive for roaming abroad, though it were but to watch the breaking up of the ice, and to mark the progress of the thousands of new-born rivulets that leap down the snowy moun- tains toward the grand reservoir of waters. There are places always to be found which are inviting to the solitary pedestrian during the most uncomfortable sea- sons. The fairy hands that were once busy in spreading tints upon the flowers and upon the heavens still toil unseen in their deserted places, weaving the few frag- ments of remaining beauty upon moss-grown hillocks and in fern-embroidered nooks. People who have always lived in the interior of the country can have only a feeble conception of the pleasure of a seaside ramble, which is during this month, when the west-winds prevail the greater part of the time, more agreeable than a walk in the open plain. Among the lakes and rivers and hills and valleys of an interior land- scape, though there be an endless variety of pastoral beauty, there is nothing that will compare with the grand- eur of a water prospect from the sea-shore. Neither can such a view be fully appreciated by those who have be- held it only from the harbor of a large city, where the 36 MARCH. works of art cover and conceal its native magnificence, and withdraw the mind from those poetic thoughts that would be awakened by an unsophisticated ocean-scene. We must go forth upon the solitary shores, at a distance from all artificial objects, and walk upon, the high bluffs that project far enough into the sea to afford sight of a complete hemisphere of waters, to obtain a just idea of a sea-prospect. When we look from the deck of a sailing ship, where nothing on any side is to be seen but the ocean, bounded by the circle that seems to divide the dark blue of the waters from the more ethereal azure of the skies, our sublime emotions are not modified by any sensations of beauty; but when this blue expanse of waters divides the prospect equally with the landscape that is spread out in a luxuriant variety of wood, plain, and mountain, the emotions excited by the sublimity of the scene are softened into repose by the beauty and loveliness of the opposite prospect. But the sun is daily rising higher into the zenith. The blustering winds are losing their force and are yield- ing to the fate that awaits them inevitably after the win- ter has passed away. The trees bow their heads less lowly to the gales, standing more and more erect, as if conscious that the time of their triumph is near, and that the singing-birds are awaiting the opening of their flow- ers and the unfolding of their leaves. The infant Spring is fast becoming a maiden and a goddess, and the herbs are preparing to weave garlands for her virgin brows, daisies to spread at her feet, and ambrosial incense, such as in heaven surrounds the presence of purity and holi- ness, to gladden her coming. Let the winds rage, and the clouds threaten ; we know that soon their anger will be quelled by the genial sunshine of spring, as the tumults in the human breast are tranquillized by the smiles of innocence and beauty. SINGING-BIRDS. THE Singing-Birds, with reference to their songs, are distinguishable into four classes: —The Rapid singers, whose song is uninterrupted, of considerable length, and delivered in apparent ecstasy; the Moderate singers, whose notes are slowly modulated, without pauses or rests between the different strains; the Interrupted singers, who sometimes modulate their notes with rapidity, but make a distinct pause after each strain. The Linnet and the Bobolink are examples of the first class; the com- mon Robin and the Veery of the second; the Red Thrush and particularly the Hermit Thrush of the third. There are other birds whose lay consists only of two or three notes, not sufficient to be called a song. The Bluebird and the Golden Robin are of this class. June, in this part of the world, is the most tuneful month of the year. Many of our principal songsters do not appear until near the middle of May; but all, wheth- er early or late, continue to sing throughout the month of June. The birds that arrive the latest are not always the latest in returning. The period of time they occupy in song depends chiefly upon the number of broods of young they raise in the year. If they raise but one brood in a season, their period of song is short; if they raise two or more, they may prolong their singing into August. Not one of our New England birds is an autumnal war- bler, though the Robin, the Wood-Sparrow, and the Song- Sparrow are often heard after the first of September. The tuneful season in New England comprises April, May, and the three summer months. 38 SINGING-BIRDS. There are certain times of the day, as well as certain seasons of the year, when birds are most musical. The erand concert of the feathered tribe takes place during. the hour between dawn and sunrise. During the remain- der of the day until evening they have no concerts. Each individual sings according to its habits, but we do not hear them collectively. At sunset there is an appar- ent attempt to unite once more in chorus, but this 1s far from being so loud or so general as in the morning, when they suffer less disturbance from man. There are but few birds whose notes could be accu- rately described upon the gamut. We seldom perceive anything like artificial pauses or true musical intervals in their time or melody. Yet they have no deficiency of musical ear, for almost any singing-bird when young may be taught to warble an artificial tune. Birds do not dwell steadily upon one note at any time. They are constantly sliding and quavering, and their songs are full of pointed notes. There are some species whose lays, like those of the Whippoorwill, resemble an arti- ficial modulation, but these are rare. In general their musical intervals cannot be accurately distinguished on account of the rapidity of their utterance. I have often endeavored to transcribe their notes upon the gamut, but have not yet been able to communicate to any person by this means a correct idea of the song, except in a few extraordinary cases. Such attempts are almost use- less. Different individuals of certain species often sing very unlike each other; but if we listen attentively to a num- ber of them, we shall detect in all their songs a theme, as it is termed by musicians, of which they severally warble their respective variations. Every song of any species is, technically speaking, a fantasia constructed upon this theme, from which, though they may greatly SINGING-BIRDS. 39 vary their notes, no individual ever departs. The theme of the Song-Sparrow is easily written on the gamut, out of which the bird makes many variations ; that of the Robin’s song is never more than slightly varied; but I have not been able to detect in the Haile of the Bobolink any theme at all. The song of birds is innate. It is not learned, some have supposed, from parental instruction ; else why should not a Cowbird sing like a Vireo, which is sometimes its foster parent, and would undoubtedly, if this were the usual custom, be as willing to teach the young interloper to sing as to supply it with food? Birds of the same species have by their organization a dispo- sition to utter certain sounds when under the influence of certain feelings. If the young bird learned of its parents, nature would have made the female the singer instead of the male, who, I am confident, would not trouble himself to be a music-teacher, and, if he were willing to take this task upon him, would not select the males only to be his pupils. If we should see re- peated instances of the exemplification of their mode of instruction, —if we should see the young birds standing around an old cocks Robin while he delivers his song, note by note, for the young to imitate,—we should have some reason to believe that all male singing-birds are music-teachers as well as performers. But after all, would an old Bobolink ever have patience to repeat his notes slowly to his young for their instruction ? Many birds are, however, imitators of sounds, and will sometimes learn the songs of other birds when confined in a cage near them. The Bobolink when caged near a Canary readily learns its song, but in a wild state he never deviates from his own peculiar medley. Nature has provided each species with notes unlike those of any other as one of the means by which they should 40 SINGING-BIRDS. identify their own kindred, and there is reason to believe that if one of them had never heard the note of his own parents he would still sing like all his predecessors. In a state of confinement birds will occasionally imitate the notes of other species, and in this respect they differ entirely from quadrupeds. The song of birds seems to be the means used by the male, not only to woo the female, but to call her to him- self when absent. Before he has chosen his mate he sings more loudly than at any subsequent period. The different males of the same species seem at that time to be vying with each other, and the one that has the loudest and most varied song is likely to be the first attended by a mate. When the two birds are employed in building their nest, the male constantly attends his partner and sings less loudly and frequently than before. This comparative silence continues until the female be- gins to sit. During incubation the male again sings with emphasis at his usual hours, perched upon some neighboring tree, as if to assure her of his presence, but more probably to entice her away from the nest. It is a curious fact that male birds seem to be displeased to a certain extent while their mate is sitting, on account of her absence, and are more than usually vociferous, sometimes with the evident intention of coquetting with other females. After the young brood is hatched the attention of the male bird is occupied with the care of his off- spring, though he is far less assiduous in his parental duties than the female. If we watch a pair of Robins when they have a nest full of young birds, we shall see the female bring the greater part of their food. The male bird continues to sing until the young have left their nest; but if there is to be no other brood, he becomes immediately silent. If, early in the season, a SINGING-BIRDS. 41 couple whose habit is to rear but one brood are robbed of their nest, they will make a new one, and the male in this case continues'in song to a later period than those who were not disturbed. If the male bird loses his mate during incubation, he seldom takes her place, but becomes once more very tuneful, uttering his call-notes loudly for several days and finally changing them into song. It would seem, therefore, that the song of the bird proceeds in some degree from discontent,—from his want of a mate, in the one case, or from her absence when she is sitting, in the other. The buoyancy of spirits produced by the season and the full supply of his physical wants are joined with the pains of absence, which he is determined to relieve by exerting all his power to entice his partner from her nest. I have often thought that the almost uninterrupted song of caged birds proves their singing to arise from a desire to entice a companion into their own little prison. Hence, when an old bird from our fields is caught and caged during the breeding-season, he will continue his tunefulness long after all others of the same species have become silent. The Bobolink in a state of freedom will not sing after the middle of July ; but if one be caught and caged, he will continue to warble more loudly than he did in his native meadows until September. It is generally believed that singing-birds are chiefly confined to temperate latitudes. That this is an error is apparent from the testimony of travellers, who speak of the birds of Africa and of the Sandwich Islands as singing delightfully; and some fine songsters are occa- sionally imported from tropical countries. It should be considered that in these hot regions the birds are more scattered and are not so well known as_ those of temperate latitudes, which are generally inhabited 42 SINGING-BIRDS. by civilized man. Savages and barbarians, who are the principal inhabitants of hot countries, are seldom ob- servant of the songs or habits of birds. A musician of the feathered race, no less than a human singer, must have an appreciating audience or his powers could not be made known to the world. But even with the same audience, the tropical birds would probably be less es- teemed than those of equal merit in our latitudes, for amid the stridulous and deafening sounds from insects in warm climates the notes of birds are scarcely audible. Probably, however, the comparative number of singing- birds is greater in the temperate zone, where there are more of those species that build low, and live in the shrubbery, which the singing-birds chiefly frequent. In warm climates the birds are obliged to live in trees, and the vegetation of the surface of the ground will not sup- port the Finches and Buntings, which are the chief sing- ers of the North. BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 108 THE VIREO. In the elms on Boston Common, and in all the lofty trees of 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 last of sum- mer. They are usually concealed among the highest branches of the trees, so that it is not easy to obtain sight of them. These birds are two of our Warbling Flycatchers, or Vireos; one of which I shall designate as the Brigadier, the other as the Preacher. I give below the song of the Brigadier : — Brig - a - dier, Brig - a -_ dier, Brigate. The notes of this little invisible musician are few, simple, and melodious, and, being often repeated, they are very generally known even to those who are un- acquainted with the bird. At early dawn, at noon, and at sunset its song is constantly repeated with no very long intervals, resembling, though delivered with more precision, the song of the Linnet or Purple Finch. In my boyhood, when I had no access to a book descrip- tive of our birds, and very seldom killed one for any pur- pose, I had learned nearly all the songs that were heard in the garden or wood, without knowing the physical 44 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. characters of more than one out of three of the songsters ; and as I have since studied the markings of birds only by viewing them from the ground as they were perched upon bush or tree, and have never killed or dissected one for this purpose, I cannot describe all the specific or generic characters of our birds. I am well acquainted with two of our Vireos; but I cannot distinguish them from each other except by their notes, which are as familiar to me as the voice of the Robin. I have, there- fore, determined to name them according to the style of their songs, leaving it to others to identify the species to which they respectively belong. The Brigadier, which is the one, I think, described by Nuttall as the Warbling Vireo, is a little olive-colored bird, that occupies the lofty tree-tops while singing and hunting his food, and is almost invisible as he is flitting among the branches, and never still. The Preacher (Red- eyed Vireo) arrives about a week.or ten days earlier than the Brigadier, and is later in his departure. The two are very similar, both in their looks and their habits, frequent- ing the trees in the town and its suburbs in preference to the woods, singing at all hours of the day, particularly at noon, and taking their insect prey from the leaves and branches of the trees, or seizing it as it flits by their perch, and amusing themselves while thus employed with their oft-repeated notes. Each species builds a pensile nest, or places it in a fork of the slender branches of a tree. I have seen a nest of the Brigadier about ten feet from the ground on a branch of a pear-tree, so near my chamber-window that I might have reached it without difficulty. The usual habit of either species is to sus- pend its nest at a very considerable height from the ground. BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 45 THE PREACHER. The Preacher is more generally known by his note, because he is incessant in his song, and particularly vocal during the heat of our long summer days, when only a few birds are singing. His style of preaching is not declamation. Though constantly talking, he takes the part of a deliberative orator, who explains his subject in a few words and then makes a pause for his hearers to reflect upon it. We might suppose him to be repeat- ing moderately, with a pause between each sentence, “You see it,— you know it,—do you hear me ?—do you believe it?” All these strains are delivered with a rising inflection at the close, and with a pause, as if wait- ing for an answer. The tones of the Preacher are loud and sharp, hardly melodious, modulated somewhat like those of the Robin, though not so continuous. He is never fervent, rapid, or fluent, but, like a true zealot, he is apt to be tiresome, from the long continuance of his discourse. He pauses frequently in the middle of a strain to seize a moth ora beetle, beginning anew as soon as he has swallowed his morsel. Samuels expresses great admiration for this little bird. “Everywhere in these States,’ he remarks, “at all hours of the day, from early dawn until evening twilight, his sweet, half-plaintive, half-meditative carol is heard,” and he adds, that of all his feathered acquaintances this is his favorite. The prolongation of his singing season until sometimes the last week in August renders him a valuable songster. When nearly all other birds have be- come silent, the little Preacher still continues his earnest harangue, and is sure of an audience at this late period, when he has but few rivals. 46 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. THE BOBOLINK. There is not a singing-bird in New England that en- joys the notoriety of the Bobolink. He is like a rare wit in our social or political circles. Everybody is talk- ing 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 any one who hears can see him and know who is the author of the strains that afford so much delight. He sings also at broad noonday, when everybody is out, and is seldom heard before sunrise, while other birds are joining in the universal chorus. He waits till the sun is up, when many of the early per- formers have become’ silent, as if determined to secure a good audience before his own exhibition. In the grand concert of Nature it is the Bobolink who performs the recitative, which he delivers with the ut- most fluency and rapidity, and we must listen carefully not to lose many of his words. He is plainly the merriest of all the feathered creation, almost continually in motion, and singing on the wing apparently in the greatest ecstasy of joy. There is not a plaintive strain in his whole per- formance. Every sound is as merry as the laugh of a young child, and we cannot listen to him without fancy- ing him engaged in some jocose raillery of his compan- ions. 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. His mate is a neatly formed bird, with a mild expression of face, of a modest deportment, and arrayed in the plainest apparel. She seems perfectly satisfied with observing the pomp and display of her BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 47 partner, and listening to his delightful eloquence of song. If we regard him as an orator, it must be allowed that he is unsurpassed in fluency and rapidity of utter- ance; if only as a musician, that he is unrivalled in brillianey of execution. 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 can imagine they might represent the persons dramatized in some comic opera. The birds never re- main stationary upon a bough, singing apparently for their own solitary amusement; they are ever in com- pany, passing to and fro, often beginning their song upon the extreme end of an apple-tree bough, then suddenly taking flight and singing the principal part while bal- ancing themselves on the wing. The merriest part of the day with these birds is the later afternoon, during the hour preceding dewfall, before the Robin and the Veery begin their evening hymn. At that hour, assem- bled in company, they might seem to be practising a cotillon on the wing, each one singing to his own move- ment as he sallies forth and returns, and nothing can exceed their apparent merriment. The Bobolink begins his morning song just at sunrise, at the time when the Robin, having sung from earliest daybreak, is near the close of his performance. 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 com- edy is concluded Nature lulls us to repose by the mellow notes of the Vesper-Bird, and the pensive and still more melodious strains of the solitary Thrushes. In pleasant shining weather the Bobolink seldom flies 48 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 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 the greatest loud- ness and fluency. Vain are all the attempts of other birds to imitate his truly original style. The Mocking- Bird is said to give up the attempt in despair, and re- fuses to sing at all when confined near one in a cage. The Bobolink is not a shy bird during the breeding season ; but when the young are reared and gathered in flocks the whole species become very timid. Their food consists entirely of insects during at least all the early part of summer. Hence they are not frequenters of the woods, but of the fields that supply their insect food. They evidently have no liking for solitude. They join with their own kindred, sometimes, during the breeding season, in small companies, and in the latter summer in large flocks. They love the orchard and the mowing-field, and many are the nests which are exposed by the scythe of the haymaker when performing his task early in the season. THE O’LINCON FAMILY. A flock of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove ; Some were warbling cheerily and some were making love. There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle, — A livelier set were never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle : — Crying, ‘‘ Phew, shew, Wadolineon ; see, see Bobolincon Down among the tickle-tops, hiding in the buttercups ; I know the saucy chap; I see his shining cap Bobbing in the clover there, — see, see, see!” Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree ; Startled by his rival’s song, quickened by his raillery. Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curvetting in the air, And merrily he turns about and warns him to beware ! “Tis you that would a wooing go, down among the rushes O ! Wait a week, till flowers are cheery ; wait a week, and ere you marry, Be sure of a house wherein to tarry ; Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait !” BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 49 Every one’s a funny fellow ; every one’s a little mellow ; Follow, follow, follow, follow, o’er the hill and in the hollow. Merrily, merrily there they hie ; now they rise and now they fly ; They cross and turn, and in and out, and down the middle and wheel about, With a “‘ Phew, shew, Wadolincon ; listen to me, Bobolincon ! Happy ’s the wooing that’s speedily doing, that ’s speedily doing, That ’s merry and over with the bloom of the clover ; Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow me !” O what a happy life they lead, over the hill and in the mead ! How they sing, and how they play! See, they fly away, away ! Now they gambol o’er the clearing, — off again, and then appearing ; Poised aloft on quivering wing, now they soar, and now they sing, ‘© We must all be merry and moving ; we must all be happy and loving ; For when the midsummer is come, and the grain has ripened its ear, The haymakers scatter our young, and we mourn for the rest of the year ; Then, Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, haste, haste away !” THE BLUEBIRD. Not one of our songsters is so intimately associated with the early spring as the Bluebird. Upon his arrival from his winter residence, he never fails to make known his presence by a few melodious notes uttered from some roof or fence in the field or garden. On the earliest morning in April, when we first open our windows to welcome the soft vernal gales, they bear on their wings the sweet strains of the Bluebird. These few notes are associated with all the happy scenes and incidents that attend the opening of the year. The Bluebird is said to bear a strong resemblance to the English Robin-Redbreast, similar in form and size, having a red breast and short tail-feathers, with only this manifest difference, that one is olive-colored above where the other is blue. But the Bluebird does not equal the Redbreast as a songster. His notes are few and not greatly varied, though sweetly and plaintively modulated and never loud. On account of their want of variety, they do 3 D 50 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. not enchain the listener; but they constitute an important part of the melodies of morn. The value of the inferior singers in making up a general chorus is not sufficiently appreciated. In a musi- cal composition, as In an anthem or oratorio, though there is a leading part, which is usually the air, that gives char- acter to the whole, yet this leading part would often be a very indifferent piece of melody if performed without its accompaniments ; and these alone would seem still more trifling and unimportant. Yet, if the composition be the work of a master, these brief strains and snatches, though apparently insignificant, are intimately connected with the harmony of the piece, and could not be omitted with- out a serious disparagement of the grand effect. The inferior singing-birds, bearing a similar relation to the whole choir, are indispensable as aids in giving additional effect to the notes of the chief singers. Though the Robin is the principal musician in the gen- eral anthem of morn, his notes would become tiresome if heard without accompaniments. Nature has so ar- ranged the harmony of this chorus, that one part shall assist another; and so exquisitely has she combined all the different voices, that the silence of any one cannot fail to be immediately perceived. The low, mellow war- ble of the Bluebird seems an echo to the louder voice of the Robin; and the incessant trilling or running ac- companiment of the Hair-Bird, the twittering of the Swallow, and the loud, melodious piping of the Oriole, frequent and short, are sounded like the different parts in a band of instruments, and each performer seems to time his part as if by some rule of harmony. Any discordant sound that may occur in this performance never fails to disturb the equanimity of the singers, and some minutes will elapse before they resume their song. It would be difficult to draw a correct comparison be- BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 51 tween the birds and the various instruments they repre- sent. But if the Robin were described as the clarionet, the Bluebird might be considered the flageolet, frequently but not incessantly interspersing a few mellow strains. The Hair-Bird would be the octave flute, constantly trilling ona high key, and the Golden Robin the bugle, often repeating his loud and brief strain. The analogy, if carried further, might lose force and correctness. All the notes of the Bluebird — his call-notes, his ally plaintive and closely resemble one another. I am not aware that this bird utters a harsh note. His voice, which is one of the earliest to be heard in the spring, is associated with the early flowers and with all pleasant vernal influences. When he first arrives he perches upon the roof of a barn or upon some leafless tree, and delivers his few and frequent notes with evident fervor, as if con- scious of the pleasures that await him. These mellow notes are all the sounds he makes for several weeks, sel- dom chirping or scolding like other birds. His song is discontinued at midsummer, but his plaintive call, con- sisting of a single note pensively modulated, continues every day until he leaves our fields. This sound is one of the melodies of summer’s decline, and reminds us, like the note of the green nocturnal tree-hopper, of the ripened harvest, the fall of the leaf, and of all the joyous festiv als and melancholy reminiscences of autumn. The Bluebird builds his nest in hollow trees and posts, and may be encouraged to breed around our dwellings, by supplying boxes for his accommodation. In whatever vicinity we reside, whether in a recent clearing or the heart of a village, if we set up a bird-house in May, it will certainly be occupied by a Bluebird, unless _pre- viously taken by a Wren or a Martin. But there is com- monly so great a demand for such accommodations, that 52 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. it is not unusual to see two or three different species contending for one box. THE HOUSE-WREN. The bird whose notes serve more than any other spe- cies to enliven our summer noondays is the common House-Wren. It is said to breed chiefly in the Middle States, but is very common in our New England vil- lages, and as it extends its summer migration to Labrador, it probably breeds in all places north of the Middle States. It is a migratory bird, leaving us early in autumn, and not reappearing until May. It builds in a hollow tree like the Bluebird. A box of any kind, properly made, will answer its purposes. But nothing is better than a grape-jar, prepared by drilling a hole in its side, just large enough for the Wren, and setting it up on a perpendicular branch sawed off and inserted into the mouth of the jar. The bird fills it with sticks before it makes a nest, and the mouth of the jar serves for drain- age. The Wren is one of the most restless of the feathered tribe. He is continually in motion, and even when sing- ing 1s constantly flitting about and changing his position. We see him in a dozen places as it were at the same moment; now warbling in ecstasy from the roof of a shed, then, with his wings spread and his feathers ruffled, scolding furiously at a Bluebird or a Swallow that has alighted on his box, or driving a Robin from a neighboring cherry-tree. Instantly we observe him run- ning along a stone-wall and diving down and in and out, from one side to the other, through its openings, 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 under a cabbage-leaf. Again he is on the roof of a shed, BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. BO warbling vociferously ; and these manceuvres and peregri- nations have occupied hardly a minute, so rapid and in- cessant are all 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, on account of the general silence of birds, more noticeable at that hour. There is a concert at noon- day, as well as in the morning and evening, among the birds ; and of the former the Wren is one of the principal musicians. After the hot rays of the sun have silenced the early performers, the Song-Sparrow and the Red- Thrush continue to sing at intervals during the greater part of the day. The Wren is likewise heard at all hours ; but when the languishing heat of noon has arrived, the few birds that continue to sing are more than usually vocal, and seem to form a select company. The birds which are thus associated with the Wren are the Bobo- link, the Preacher, the Linnet, and the Catbird, if he be anywhere near. If we were at this hour in the. woods we should hear the loud, shrill voice of the Oven-Bird and some of the warbling sylvians. Of all these noonday singers, the Wren is the most re- markable. His song is singularly varied and animated. He has great compass and execution, but wants variety in his tones. He begins very sharp and shrill, like a grasshopper, slides down to a series of guttural notes, then ascends like the rolling of a drum in rapidity of utterance to another series of high notes. Almost without a pause he recommences his querulous insect-chirp, and proceeds through the same trilling and demi-semi-quaver- ing as before. He is not particular about the part of his song which he makes his closing note. He will leave off in the middle of a strain, when he seems in the height of ecstasy, to pick up a spider or a fly. As the Wren produces two broods in a season, his notes are prolonged 54 BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. to a late period in the summer, and may be heard some- times in the third week in August. THE WINTER-WREN. We do not often meet with this bird near Boston in summer. He is then a resident of the northern parts of Maine and New Hampshire, and of the Green Mountain range. In the autumn he migrates from the north and may be occasionally seen in company with our other win- ter birds. In our own latitude, if the cold season drives him farther south, we meet him again early in the spring, making his journey to his northern home. While he remains with us we see him near the shelving banks of rivers, creeping about old stumps of trees, which, half de- cayed, furnish a frugal share of his dormant insect-food. He is so little afraid of man that he will often leave his native resorts, and may be seen, like our common House- Wren, examining the wood-pile, creeping into the holes of old stone-walls and about the foundations of out-houses. Not having seen this bird except in winter, I am unac- quainted with his song. Samuels describes it as very melodious and delightful. THE MARSH WRENN, I was once crossing by turnpike an extensive meadow which was overgrown with reeds and rushes, when my curiosity was excited by hearing, in a thicket on the banks of a streamlet, a sound that would hardly admit of being described. I could not tell whether it came from an asthmatic bird or an aggravated frog. The sound was unlike anything I had ever heard. I should have sup- posed, however, if there were Mocking-Birds in our woods, that one of them had concealed himself in the thicket and was attempting to imitate the braying of an ass. I sat down upon the railing of a rustic bridge that crossed the BIRDS OF THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD. 55 stream, and watched for a sight of the imp that must be concealed there. In less than a minute there emerged from it a Marsh-Wren, whisking and flitting about with gestures as peculiar though not as awkward as his bur- lesque song. If I believed, as some writers affirm, that birds learn their song from their parents, who carry them along from one step to another as if they had a musical gamut before them, I might have conjectured that this bird had been taught by a frog, and that, despising his teacher, he strove not to learn his reptile notes but to burlesque them. As I was walking homeward, I could not but reflect that Nature, who is sometimes personified as an old dame, must have indulged her mirthfulness when she created a bird with the voice of a reptile. Dr. Brewer describes the nest of the Marsh-Wren as nearly spherical, composed externally of coarse sedges firmly interwoven, cemented with mud and clay, and im- pervious to the weather. An orifice is left on one side for entrance, having on the upper side a projecting edge to protect it from rain. The inside is lined with soft grass, feathers, and the cottony product of various plants. ' It is commonly placed on a low bush a few feet from the ground, This species, like all the Wrens, has great activity and industry, consumes immense quantities of small insects, is very petulant in its manners, and manifests a superior degree of intelligence and courage. THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. THERE is not a more interesting subject connected with botany than that of the haunts of flowers. We may by chance discover a rare and beautiful plant in a situa- tion that would be the last to invite our attention. The apparent unfitness of the place for aught but common weeds may have preserved it from observation. I have sometimes encountered by the roadside a species for which I had long vainly traversed the woods. On the borders of some of the less frequented roads in the coun- try, the soil and the plants still remain in their primitive condition. In such grounds we may find materials for study for several weeks, without leaving the waysides. Indeed, all those old roads which are not thoroughfares — by-ways not travelled enough to destroy the grass be- tween the ruts of wheels and the middle path made by the feet of horses—are very propitious to the growth ° of wild plants. The shrubbery on these old roadsides, when it has not been disturbed for a number of years, is far more beautiful than the finest imaginable hedge- row. Here are several viburnums, two or three species of cornel, the bayberry, the sweet fern, the azalea, the rhodora, the small kalmia, and a crowd of whortleberry- bushes, beside the wild rose and eglantine. The narrow footpath through this wayside shrubbery has a magic about it that makes it delightful to pass through it. Under the shelter of this tangle-wood Nature calls out the anemone, blue, white, and pedate violets, and in damp places the erythronium, the Solomon’s seal, and THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. 57 the bellwort. When I see these native ornaments de- stroyed for the improvement of the road, I feel like one whose paternal estate has been cleared and graded and measured out into auction-lots. There are indications by which we may always identify the haunts of certain species, if they have not been eradi- cated. We know that fallow grounds are inhabited by weeds, and that mean soils contain plants that seem by their thrift to require a barren situation; but they are like poor people, who live in mean, huts because the better houses are occupied by their superiors. These plants would grow more luxuriantly in a ‘good soil, if they were not crowded out by those of more vigorous habit. Every one is familiar with a species of rush called wire grass, which is abundant in footpaths through wet meadows. It is so tough that the feet of men and animals, while they crush and destroy all other plants that come up there, leave this uninjured. This remarkable habit has caused the belief that it thrives better from being trampled under foot. The truth is, it will bear more hard usage than other species, and is made conspicuous by being left alone after its companions have been trod- den to death. The same may be observed of a species of Polygonwm,—the common “ knot-grass” of our back yards. A certain amount of trampling is favorable to its growth by crushing out all its competitors. Most of our naturalized plants inhabit those places which have been once reduced to tillage and afterwards restored to nature. Such are the sites of old gardens and orchards, and the forsaken enclosures of some old dwell- ing-house. The white Bethlehem-star is a tenant of these deserted grounds, growing meekly under the protec- tion of some moss-covered stone-wall or dilapidated shed, fraternizing with the celandine, the sweet chervil, and here and there a solitary narcissus. The euphorbia and 3% 58 THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. houseleek prosper in similar places, growing freshly upon ledges and heaps of stones, which have been carted by the farmer into abrupt hollows, mixed with the soil and weeds of the garden. In shady corners we find the colts- foot, the gill,—a very pretty labiate, — and some of the foreign mints. Spikenard and tansy delight in more open places, along with certain other medicinal herbs introduced by ancient simplers. These plants are seldom found in woods or primitive pastures. Wild plants of rare beauty abound in a recent clearing, especially in a tract from which a growth of hard wood has been felled, if afterwards the soil has remained undis- turbed. In the deep woods the darkness will not permit any sort of undergrowth except a few plants of peculiar habit and constitution. But after the removal of the wood, all kinds of indigenous plants, whose seeds have been wafted there by the winds or carried there by the birds, will revel in the clearing, until they are choked by a new growth of trees and shrubs. Strawberries and sev- eral species of brambles spring up there as if by magic, and cover the stumps of the trees with their vines and their racemes of black and scarlet fruit; and hundreds of beautiful flowering plants astonish us by their pres- ence, as if they were a new creation. We must look to these clearings, and to those tracts in which the trees have been destroyed by fire, more than to any others, for the exact method of nature. Among the first plants that would appear after the burning, beside the lilia- ceous tribe, whose bulbs lie too deep in the soil to be destroyed, are those with downy seeds, which are imme- diately sowed there by the winds. One very conspicu- ous and beautiful plant, the spiked willow herb, is so abundant in any tract that has been burned, the next year after the conflagration, that in the West and in the British Provinces it has gained the name of fireweed. THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. 59 But the paradise of the young botanist is a glade, or open space in a wood, usually a level between two rocky eminences, or a little alluvial meadow pervaded by a small stream, open to the sun, and protected at the same time from the winds by surrounding hills and woods. It is surprising how soon the flowery tenants of one of these glades will vanish after the removal of this bulwark of trees. But with this protection, the loveliest flowers will cluster there, like the singing-birds around a cottage and its enclosures in the wilderness. Here they find a genial soil and a natural conservatory, and abide there until some accident destroys them. Nature selects these places for her favorite garden-plots. In the centre she rears her tender herbs and flowers, and her shrubbery in the bor- ders, while the trees form a screen around the whole. I have often seen one of these glades crimsoned all over with flowers of the cymbidium and arethusa, with wild roses in their borders, vying in splendor with a sumptu- ous parterre. While strolling through a wood in one of those rustic avenues which have been made by the farmer or the woodman, we shall soon discover that this path is like- wise a favorite resort for many species of wild-flowers. Except the glade, there are but few places so bountifully stored by nature with a starry profusion of bloom. The cranesbill, the wood anemone, the cinquefoil, the yellow Bethlehem-star, the houstonia, to say nothing of crowds of violets, adorn the verdant sward of these woodpaths ; and still beyond them, cherished by the sunshine that is admitted into this opening, ginsengs, bellworts, the white starlike trientalis, the trillium, and medeola thrive more prosperously than in situations entirely wild and primi- tive. It is pleasant to note how kindly Nature receives these little disturbances which are made by the woodman, and how many beautiful things will assemble there, to be 60 THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. fostered by those conditions which accident, combined with the rude operations of agriculture, alone can pro- duce. : Leaving this avenue, we ascend the sloping ground, and, passing through a tangled bed of lycopodiums, often meeting with the remnants of a foot-path that is soon obliterated in a mass of vegetation; then wandering path- less over ground made smooth by a brown matting of pine leaves, beautifully pencilled over with the small creeping vines and checkered foliage of the mitchella and its scarlet berries, we come at last to a little rocky dell full of the greenery of mosses and ferns, and find our- selves in the home of the columbines. Such a brilliant assemblage reminds you of an aviary full of linnets and goldfinches. The botanist does not consider the colum- bine a rare prize. It is a well-known plant, thriving both in the wood and outside of it; but it 1s gregarious, and selects for its habitation a sunny place in the woods, upon a bed of rock covered with a thin crust of soil. The plants take root on every rocky projection and in every crevice, hanging like jewels from a green tapestry of vel- vet moss. As we leave this magic recess of flowers and pursue our course under the pines, trampling noiselessly over the brown, elastic sward, we soon discover the purple, inflated blossoms of the pink lady’s-slipper. These flowers are al- ways considerably scattered, and never grace the open field. Often in their company we observe the sweet pyrola, bearing a long spike of white flowers that have the odor of cinnamon. Less frequently we find in this scattered assemblage some rare species of wood orchis and the sin- gular coral plant. If we now trace the course of any little streamlet to a wooded glen full of pale green bog- moss, covering the ground with a deep mass of spongy vegetation, there we may happily discover the rare and THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. 61 beautiful white orchis, the nun of the woods, with flow- ers resembling the pale face of a lady wearing a white cap. This plant is found only in certain cloistered re- treats, under the shade of trees. It is a true vestal, and will not tarnish its purity by any connection with the soil. It is cradled like an infant in the soft, green bog- moss, and derives its sustenance from the pure air and dews of heaven. Like the orchids of warm climates, it is half parasitic, and requires certain conditions for its growth which are rarely combined. Flowers are usually abundant in pleasant situations. They avoid cold and bleak exposures, the dark shade of very dense woods, and wet places seldom visited by sun- shine. Like birds, they love protection, and we are sure to meet with many species wherever the songsters of the forest are numerous. Birds and flowers require the same fostering warmth, the same sunshine, and the same fertility of soil to supply them with their food. When we are traversing a deep forest, the silence of the situa- tion is one of the most notable circumstances of our jour- ney; but if we suddenly encounter a great variety of flowers, our ears will at the same time be greeted by the notes of some little thrush or sylvia. If I hear the veery, a bird that loves to mingle his liquid notes with the sound of some tuneful runlet, I know that I am approaching the shady haunts of the trillium and the wood thalictrum. If I hear the snipe feebly imitating the lark, as he soars at twilight, and warbles his chirruping song far above my head, I know that when he descends in his spiral course he will alight upon grounds occupied by the Canadian rhodora, the andromeda, and the wild strawberry plant. But if the song of the robin is heard in the forest, I feel sure that a cottage is near, with its orchard and cornfields, or else that I am close to the end of the wood and am about to emerge into the open plain. 62 THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. A moor is seldom adorned with plants that would pros- per in the uplands; but if it be encompassed by a circle of wooded hills, a gay assemblage of flowers will congre- gate in its borders, where hill and plain are impercepti- bly blended. We may always find a path made by cattle all along the border. If we thread the course of this path, we pass through bushes of moderate height, consist- ing of whortleberries, clethra, and swamp honeysuckles, and now and then enter a drier path, through beds of sweet-fern, and occasional open spaces full of pedate violets. The docile animals, — picturesque artists who constructed this path,—while gazing upon the clover- patches, will turn their large eyes placidly upon us, still heeding their diligent occupation. We keep close to the edge of the moor, not disregarding many common and homely plants that lie in our way, till we discover the object of our search, the sarracenia, or sidesaddle plant, with its dark purple flowers, nodding lke Epicureans over their circle of leafy cups half filled with dew. This is a genuine “pitcher plant,’ and is the only one of the family that is not tropical. The water avens— con- spicuous for its drooping chocolate-colored flowers — and the golden senecio congregate in the same meadow, bend- ing their plumes above the tall rushes and autumnal asters not yet in flower. Very early in the season, if we are near an oak wood, “standing on a slope with a southern exposure, we enter it, and if fortune favors us, the liverwort will meet our sight, pushing up the dry oak leaves that formed its winter covering, and displaying its pale bluish and purple flowers, deepening their hues as they ex- pand. When they are fully opened, there are but few sights so pleasant as these circular clusters of flowers, on a ground of dry brown foliage, enlivened with hardly a tuft of verdure, except the trilobate leaves of this inter- THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. 63 esting plant. As oaks usually stand on a fertile soil, there is a greater variety of species among their under- growth than in almost any other wood. A grove of oaks, after it has been thinned by the woodman so as to open the grounds to the sun, becomes when left to nature a rare repository of herbaceous plants. Yet there are cer- tain curious species which are found almost exclusively in pine woods. Such is the genus Monotropa, including two species, the pine-sap and the bird’s-nest, — plants without leaves or hues, with stems resembling potato- sprouts grown in a dark cellar. Outside of pine woods, however, on their southern boundary, we may always look for the earliest spring flowers, because no other wood affords them so warm a protection. In our imaginary tour we have visited only the most common scenes of nature; we have traced to their habi- tats very few rare plants, and have yet hardly noticed the flowers of autumn, — those luxuriant growers, many of them half shrubby and branching like trees. Some of these have no select haunts. The asters and golden-rods, the most conspicuous of the hosts of autumn, are found in almost every soil and situation; but they congregate chiefly on the borders of woods and fields, and seem to take special delight in arraying themselves by the sides of roads recently laid out through a wet meadow. The autumnal plants generally prosper only in the lowlands which have not suffered from the summer droughts. When botanizing at the close of the season, we must avoid dry sandy places, and follow the windings of narrow streams that glide through peat-meadows, and traverse the sides of ditches, examining the convex em- bankments of soil which have been thrown up by the spade of the ditcher. On level moors we meet with occa- sional rows of willows affectionately guarding the waters of these artificial pools, where they were planted as senti- 64 THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. nels by the rustic laborer. The gentians, which have always been admired, as much for the delicacy and beauty of their flowers as for their hardy endurance of autumnal frosts, are often strewn in these places, glowing like sap- phires on the faded greensward of the closing season of vegetation. The great numbers of wild plants which are often as- sembled in a single meadow seem to a poetical mind something more than a result of the mere accidents of nature. There is not a greater variety or diversity in the thoughts that enter and pass through the mind than of species among these herbs. Each has distinct features, and some attractive form or color, or other remarkable property peculiar to itself’ How many different species bend under our footsteps while we are crossing an ordi- nary field! How many thousands are constantly dis- tilling odors into the atmosphere, which is oxygenated by their foliage and purified and renovated by their vital and chemical action! There is not a single plant, how- ever obscure, minute, or unattractive, that is not an important agent of Nature in her vast and mysterious economy. There would be no end to our adventures, if we were resolved to continue them until our observations were exhausted. Hence the never-failing resources of the bot- anist who is within an hour’s walk of the forest. The sports of hunting and fishing offer their temptations to a greater number of young persons; but they do not afford continued pleasure to their votaries, like botanizing. The hunter watches his dog and the angler his line; but the plant-hunter examines everything that bears a leaf or a flower. His pursuit leads him into all the green recesses of nature, — into sunny dells and shady arbors, over peb- bly hills and plashy hollows, through mossy dingles and wandering footpaths, into secret alcoves where the Hama- THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. 65 dryads drape the rocks with ferns, and Naiads collect the dews of morning and pour them into their oozy fountains for the perfection of their verdure. A ride over the roads of the same region is not so pleas- ant as these intricate journeys of the botanist. He frater- nizes with all the inhabitants of the wood, and with the la- borers of the farms which he crosses, not heeding the cau- tions to trespassers. He meets the rustic swain at his plough, and listens to his quaint discourse and his plati- tudes about nature and mankind. He follows the devi- ous paths of the ruffed grouse, and destroys the snares which are set for its destruction. He listens to its muf- fled drum while he cools his heated brow under a canopy of maples overarched with woodbine, and picks the scar- let berries that cluster on the green knolls at his feet. He lives in harmony with all created things, and hears the voices of the woods and music of the streams. The trees , spread their shade over him; every element loads him with its favors. Morning hails him with her earliest sal- utation, and introduces him to her fairest hours and sweetest gales. Noon tempts him into her silent wood- land sanctuaries, and makes the hermit thrush his soli- tary minstrel. Evening calls him out from his retreat, to pursue another varied journey among the fairy realms of vegetation, and ere she parts with him curtains the heav- ens with splendor and prompts her choir of sylvan war- blers to salute him with their vespers. WATER SCENERY. THERE is no single thing in nature that adds more beauty to landscape than water. It is emblematical of purity and tranquillity; it is suggestive of multitudes of pleasant rural images, and, beside these moral ex- pressions, it possesses a great deal of intrinsic beauty. The mirrored surface of a lake or a stream, reflecting the hues and forms of the clouds in the heavens, and of the trees and shrubbery on its banks, is pleasing to the eye, independently of any suggestion that may occur to a fan- ciful mind. The eye requires to be practised, or rather the mind must be educated in a certain manner, before it can enjoy and appreciate moral beauty. But the beauty of a smooth surface of water, of waves trembling in the moonlight, of a spouting fountain, or a sparkling rill, is obvious and attractive even to a child. In water have color and form and motion intimately combined their charms, assuming the loveliest tints in the dews of heaven and the spray of the ocean, and every imaginable form of beauty in the lake and its sinuosities, and the river in its various windings through vale and mountain. Water is not only beautiful in itself, but it is one of the chief sources of pleasing variety in the expression of landscape, whether we view it as spread out on the silver bosom of a lake, the serpentine course of a river, or by its outlines forming those endless changes that delight the voyager by the sea-shore. Every one must have observed, when riding through an unattractive country, how it seems overspread with a sudden charm WATER SCENERY. 67 when we come in sight of a lake or stream. What was before monotonous is now agreeably varied; what before was spiritless is now animated and cheering.