For the first fortnight my note-book is full of the fox-colored
sparrows. It was worth while to have come into the country ahead of
time, as city people reckon, to get my fill of this Northern songster's
music. Morning and night, wherever I walked, and even if I remained
in-doors, I was certain to hear the loud and beautiful strain; to which
I listened with the more attention because the birds, I knew, would soon
be off for their native fields, beyond the boundaries of the United
States.

It is astonishing how gloriously birds may sing, and yet pass
unregarded. We read of nightingales and skylarks with a self-satisfied
thrill of second-hand enthusiasm, and meanwhile our native songsters,
even the best of them, are piping unheeded at our very doors. There may
have been half a dozen of the town's people who noticed the presence of
these fox sparrows, but I think it doubtful; and yet the birds, the
largest, handsomest, and most musical of all our many sparrows, were, as
I say, abundant everywhere, and in full voice.

One afternoon I stood still while a fox sparrow and a song sparrow sang
alternately on either side of me, both exceptionally good vocalists, and
each doing his best. The songs were of about equal length, and as far as
theme was concerned were not a little alike; but the fox sparrow's tone
was both louder and more mellow than the other's, while his notes were
longer,--more sustained,--and his voice was "carried" from one pitch to
another. On the whole, I had no hesitation about giving him the palm;
but I am bound to say that his rival was a worthy competitor. In some
respects, indeed, the latter was the more interesting singer of the two.
His opening measure of three _pips_ was succeeded by a trill of quite
peculiar brilliancy and perfection; and when the other bird had ceased
he suddenly took a lower perch, and began to rehearse an altogether
different tune in a voice not more than half as loud as what he had
been using; after which, as if to cap the climax, he several times
followed the tune with a detached phrase or two in a still fainter
voice. This last was pretty certainly an improvised cadenza, such a
thing as I do not remember ever to have heard before from _Melospiza
melodia_.

The song of the fox sparrow has at times an almost thrush-like quality;
and the bird himself, as he flies up in front of you, might easily be
mistaken for some member of that noble family. Once, indeed, when I saw
him eati