d they cannot prevent
the pessimistic effect it has upon us. It is rhythmic, but not in the
least musical, and it has a weird power over the listener. This morning
hymn does not say, as does the robin's, that life is cheerful, that
another glorious day is dawning. It says, "Rest is over; another day of
toil is here; come to work." It is monotonous as a frog chorus, but
there is a merry thrill in the notes of the amphibian which are entirely
wanting in the song. If it were not for the light-hearted tremolo of the
chewink thrown in now and then, and the loud, cheery ditty of the summer
yellow-bird, who begins soon after the pewee, one would be almost
superstitious about so unnatural a greeting to the new day. The evening
call of the bird is different. He will sit far up on a dead twig of an
old pine-tree, and utter a series of four notes, something like "do, mi,
mi, do," repeating them without pausing till it is too dark to see him,
all the time getting lower, sadder, more deliberate, till one feels
like running out and committing suicide or annihilating the bird of
ill-omen.

I felt myself a stranger indeed when I reached this pleasant spot, and
found that even the birds were unfamiliar. No robin or bluebird greeted
me on my arrival; no cheerful song-sparrow tuned his little pipe for my
benefit; no phoebe shouted the beloved name from the peak of the barn.
Everything was strange. One accustomed to the birds of our Eastern
States can hardly conceive of the country without robins in plenty; but
in this unnatural corner of Uncle Sam's dominion I found but one pair.

The most common song from morning till night was that of the summer
yellow-bird, or yellow warbler. It was not the delicate little strain we
are accustomed to hear from this bird, but a loud, clear carol, equal in
volume to the notes of our robin. These three birds, with the addition
of a vireo or two, were our main dependence for daily music, though we
were favored occasionally by others. Now the Arkansas goldfinch uttered
his sweet notes from the thick foliage of the cottonwood-trees; then the
charming aria of the catbird came softly from the tangle of rose and
other bushes; the black-headed grosbeak now and then saluted us from the
top of a pine-tree; and rarely, too rarely, alas! a passing meadow-lark
filled all the grove with his wonderful song.

And there was the wren! He interested me from the first; for a wren is a
bird of individuality always, and his