he true sylvan cadence,
is that of the black-throated green-backed warbler, whom I meet at
various points. He has no superiors among the true Sylvia. His song is
very plain and simple, but remarkably pure and tender, and might be
indicated by straight lines, thus [2 dashes, square root symbol, high
dash]; the first two marks representing two sweet, silvery notes, in
the same pitch of voice, and quite unaccented; the latter marks, the
concluding notes, wherein the tone and inflection are changed. The
throat and breast of the male are a rich black like velvet, his face
yellow, and his back a yellowish green.

Beyond the Barkpeeling, where the woods are mingled hemlock, beech,
and birch, the languid midsummer note of the black-throated blue-back
falls on my ear. "Twea, twea, twea-e-e!" in the upward slide, and with
the peculiar z-ing of summer insects, but not destitute of a certain
plaintive cadence. It is one of the most languid, unhurried sounds in
all the woods. I feel like reclining upon the dry leaves at once.
Audubon says he has never heard his love-song; but this is all the
love-song he has, and he is evidently a very plain hero with his
little brown mistress. He assumes few attitudes, and is not a bold and
striking gymnast, like many of his kindred. He has a preference for
dense woods of beech and maple, moves slowly amid the lower branches
and smaller growths, keeping from eight to ten feet from the ground,
and repeating now and then his listless, indolent strain. His back and
crown are dark blue; his throat and breast, black; his belly, pure
white; and he has a white spot on each wing.

Here and there I meet the black and white creeping warbler, whose fine
strain reminds me of hairwire. It is unquestionably the finest
bird-song to be heard. Few insect strains will compare with it in this
respect; while it has none of the harsh, brassy character of the
latter, being very delicate and tender.

That sharp, uninterrupted, but still continued warble, which before
one has learned to discriminate closely, he is apt to confound with
the red-eyed vireo's, is that of the solitary warbling vireo,--a bird
slightly larger, much rarer, and with a louder less cheerful and happy
strain. I see him hopping along lengthwise of the limbs, and note the
orange tinge of his breast and sides and the white circle around his
eye.

But the declining sun and the deepening shadows admonish me that this
ramble must be brought to a close