rilliant 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 he becomes a dull yellowish green,--the color of the
female the whole season.

One of the 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 dippings 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
bathe 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