signal, the throats are all
atune. I lie on my back with eyes half closed, and analyze the chorus
of warblers, thrushes, finches, and flycatchers; while, soaring above
all, a little withdrawn and alone rises the divine contralto of the
hermit. That richly modulated warble proceeding from the top of yonder
birch, and which unpracticed ears would mistake for the voice of the
scarlet tanager, comes from that rare visitant, the rose-breasted
grosbeak. It is a strong, vivacious strain, a bright noonday song,
full of health and assurance, indicating fine talents in the
performer, but not a genius. As I come up under the tree he casts his
eye down at me, but continues his song. This bird is said to be quite
common in the Northwest, but he is rare in the Eastern districts. His
beak is disproportionately large and heavy, like a huge nose, which
slightly mars his good looks; but Nature has made it up to him in a
blush rose upon his breast, and the most delicate of pink linings to
the under side of his wings. His back is variegated black and white,
and when flying low the white shows conspicuously. If he passed over
your head, you would not the delicate flush under his wings.

That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hemlock, glowing like a live
coal against the dark background, seeming almost too brilliant for the
severe northern climate, is his relative, the scarlet tanager. I
occasionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and know no stronger
contrast in nature. I almost fear he will kindle the dry limb on which
he alights. He is quite a solitary bird, and in this section seems to
prefer the high, remote woods, even going quite to the mountain's top.
Indeed, the event of my last visit to the mountain was meeting one of
these brilliant creatures near the summit, in full song. The breeze
carried the notes far and wide. He seemed to enjoy the elevation, and
I imagined his song had more scope and freedom than usual. When he had
flown far down the mountain-side, the breeze still brought me his
finest notes. In plumage he is the most brilliant bird we have. The
bluebird is not entirely blue; nor will the indigo-bird bear a close
inspection, nor the goldfinch, nor the summer redbird. But the tanager
loses nothing by a near view; the deep scarlet of his body and the
black of his wings and tail are quite perfect. This is his holiday
suit; in the fall be becomes a dull yellowish green,--the color of the
female the whole season.

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