g them from the air. He always placed himself
deliberately, and waited for the room to be still,--or made it so, as
already related. During the first few months of his residence with me he
gave one song of perhaps twenty notes, ending in a lovely tremolo. This
had great variety of arrangement, but all bore unmistakable resemblance
to the original theme. It was in quality totally unlike any bird note I
ever heard, and thrilling in an extraordinary degree, though it was
uttered with the beak nearly closed. I can readily believe what Mr. Ober
and others assert, that it must have a startling effect when poured out
freely in his native woods.

This song alone placed the clarin at the head of all songsters that I
have heard or heard of, and I have heard all of our own best songsters,
and the nightingale and wood lark of Europe. But after nearly a year of
this he came out one memorable day with an entirely new melody, much
more intricate and more beautiful, which for some time he reserved for
very special and particular occasions, still giving the former one
ordinarily. Some months later, to my amazement, he added a third chant,
part of which so resembled that of the wood thrush that if he had been
near one I should have thought it a remarkable mimicry. He delivered
this with the exquisite feeling of the native bird, even the delicious
quivering tone at the end, which indeed my bird often repeated in a low
tone by itself. Sometimes, when the room was very still and he sitting
on his perch, feathers puffed out, perfectly happy, he breathed out this
most bewitching tremulous sound without opening his beak,--a performance
enchanting beyond words to express.

[Sidenote: _AN ENCHANTING SINGER._]

These themes the clarin constantly varied, and in the three years of his
life with me I often noted down, in a sort of phonetic way, his songs,
as he delivered them, and I have six or seven that are perfectly
distinct and different. He never mixed them together or united them; he
rarely sang two on the same day. All through, too, there seemed so much
reserve power that one could not resist the conviction that he could go
on and on, and break one's heart with his voice if he chose. The bird's
own deep feeling was shown by his conduct; the least movement in the
room would shut him up instantly. One could heartily say with another
bird-lover across the sea, "If he has not a soul, who will answer to me
for the human soul?"

It was reserved