out-of-doors until about five o'clock, by which time the music always
came to an end. So one day I rose half an hour earlier than common on
purpose to have a look at my little matutinal serenader. My conjecture
proved correct. There sat the tit, within a few feet of his apple-branch
door, throwing back his head in the truest lyrical fashion, and calling
_Hear, hear me_, with only a breathing space between the repetitions of
the phrase. He was as plainly _singing_, and as completely absorbed in
his work, as any thrasher or hermit thrush could have been. Heretofore
I had not realized that these whistled notes were so strictly a song,
and as such set apart from all the rest of the chickadee's repertory of
sweet sounds; and I was delighted to find my tiny pet recognizing thus
unmistakably the difference between prose and poetry.

But we linger unduly with these lesser lights of song. After the music
of the Alice and the Swainson thrushes, the chief distinction of May,
1884, as far as my Melrose woods were concerned, was the entirely
unexpected advent of a colony of rose-breasted grosbeaks. For five
seasons I had called these hunting-grounds my own, and during that time
had seen perhaps about the same number of specimens of this royal
species, always in the course of the vernal migration. The present year
the first comer was observed on the 15th--solitary and, except for an
occasional monosyllable, silent. Only one more straggler, I assumed. But
on the following morning I saw four others, all of them males in full
plumage, and two of them in song. To one of these I attended for some
time. According to my notes "he sang beautifully, although not with any
excitement, nor as if he were doing his best. The tone was purer and
smoother than the robin's, more mellow and sympathetic, and the strain
was especially characterized by a dropping to a fine contralto note at
the end." The next day I saw nothing of my new friends till toward
night. Then, after tea, I strolled into the chestnut grove, and walking
along the path, noticed a robin singing freely, remarking the fact
because this noisy bird had been rather quiet of late. Just as I passed
under him, however, it flashed upon me that the voice and song were not
exactly the robin's. They must be the rose-breast's then; and stepping
back to look up, I beheld him in gorgeous attire, perched in the top of
an oak. He sang and sang, while I stood quietly listening. Pretty soon
he repeated