he leading songsters in this choir of the old Barkpeeling is
the purple finch or linnet. He sits somewhat apart, usually on a dead
hemlock, and warbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finest
songsters, and stands at the head of the finches, as the hermit at the
head of the thrushes. His song approaches an ecstasy, and, with the
exception of the winter wren's, is the most rapid and copious strain
to be heard in these woods. It is quite destitute of the trills and
the liquid, silvery, bubbling notes that characterize the wren's; but
there runs through it a round, richly modulated whistle, very sweet
and very pleasing. The call of the robin is brought in at a certain
point with marked effect, and, throughout, the variety is so great and
the strain so rapid that the impression is as of two or three birds
singing at the same time. He is not common here, and I only find him
in these or similar woods. His color is peculiar, and looks as if it
might have been imparted by dipping a brown bird in diluted pokeberry
juice. Two or three more dipping would have made the purple complete.
The female is the color of the song sparrow, a little larger, with
heavier beak, and tail much more forked.

In a little opening quite free from brush and trees, I step down to
bath my hands in the brook, when a small, light slate-colored bird
flutters out of the bank, not three feet from my head, as I stoop
down, and, as if severely lamed or injured, flutters through the grass
and into the nearest bush. As I do not follow, but remain near the
nest, she chips sharply, which brings the male, and I see it is the
speckled Canada warbler. I find no authority in the books for this
bird to build upon the ground, yet here is the nest, made chiefly of
dry grass, set in a slight excavation in the bank not two feet from
the water, and looking a little perilous to anything but ducklings or
sandpipers. There are two young birds and one little speckled egg just
pipped. But how is this? what mystery is here? One nestling is much
larger than the other, monopolizes most of the nest, and lifts its
open mouth far above that of its companion, though obviously both are
of the same age, not more than a day old. Ah! I see; the old trick of
the cow bunting, with a stinging human significance. Taking the
interloper by the nape of the neck, I deliberately drop it into the
water, but not without a pang, as I see its naked form, convulsed with
chills, float downstream. Cruel