t is to be said that a singer--and a bird no less than a
man--may be wanting in that fullness and scope of voice and that large
measure of technical skill which are absolutely essential to the great
artist, properly so called, and yet, within his own limitations, may be
competent to please even the most fastidious ear. It is with birds as
with other poets: the smaller gift need not be the less genuine; and
they whom the world calls greatest, and whom we ourselves most admire,
may possibly not be the ones who touch us most intimately, or to whom we
return oftenest and with most delight.

This may be well illustrated by a comparison of the chickadee with the
brown thrush. The thrush, or, as he is sometimes profanely styled, the
thrasher, is the most pretentious, perhaps I ought to say the greatest,
of New England songsters, if we rule out the mocking-bird, who is so
very rare with us as scarcely to come into the competition; and still,
in my opinion, his singing seldom produces the effect of really fine
music. With all his ability, which is nothing short of marvelous, his
taste is so deplorably uncertain, and his passion so often becomes a
downright frenzy, that the excited listener, hardly knowing what to
think, laughs and shouts. Bravo! by turns. Something must be amiss,
certainly, when the deepest feelings of the heart are poured forth in a
manner to suggest the performance of a _buffo_. The chickadee, on the
other hand, seldom gets mention as a singer. Probably he never looked
upon himself as such. You will not find him posing at the top of a tree,
challenging the world to listen and admire. But, as he hops from twig to
twig in quest of insects' eggs and other dainties, his merry spirits are
all the time bubbling over in little chirps and twitters, with now and
then a _Chickadee, dee_, or a _Hear, hear me_, every least syllable of
which is like "the very sound of happy thoughts." For my part, I rate
such trifles with the best of all good music, and feel that we cannot be
grateful enough to the brave tit, who furnishes us with them for the
twelve months of every year.

So far as the chickadee is concerned, I see nothing whatever to wish
different; but am glad to believe that, for my day and long after, he
will remain the same unassuming, careless-hearted creature that he now
is. If I may be allowed the paradox, it would be too bad for him to
change, even for the better. But the bluebird, who like the titmouse is
hardl