f
the former has been translated into a word so unworthy as "peabody," and
that the name "peabody bird" has become fastened on him in New England.
Far more appropriate the words applied by Elizabeth Akers Allen to an
unknown singer,--possibly this very bird,--embodied in her beautiful
poem "The Sunset Thrush." For whatever bird it was intended, the
syllables and arrangement correspond to the white-throat's utterance,
and the words are, "Sweet! sweet! sweet! Sorrowful! sorrowful!
sorrowful!"

A white-throat who haunted the neighborhood of my farmhouse did not
confine himself to the family song; which, by the way, varies less with
this species than with any other I know. At first, for some time, he
entirely omitted the triplets, making his song consist of four long
notes, the fourth being in place of the triplets. Then, later, he
dropped the last note a half tone below the others, still omitting the
triplets, which, in fact, in three or four weeks of listening and
watching, I never once heard him utter. In July of that year, in passing
over the Canadian Pacific Railway on my way West, I heard innumerable
songs by this bird. Every time the train stopped, white-throat voices
rang out on all sides, and with considerable variety. Many dropped half
a tone at the end, and some uttered the triplets on that note, while
others began the song on a higher note, and gave the rest a third below,
instead of above, as usual.

[Sidenote: _FINDING BIRDS'-NESTS._]

But to return to the singer before us on that memorable day. After
singing a long time, he suddenly began to utter the first two notes
alone, and then apparently to listen. We also listened, and soon heard a
reply of the same two notes on a different pitch. These responsive calls
were kept up for some time, and seemed to be signals between the bird
and his mate; for neither she nor her nest could be found, though the
pair had been startled out of that very bush on the preceding day. We
searched the clumps of shrubs carefully, but without success.

I long ago came to the conclusion that the ability to find nests easily
is as truly a natural gift as the ability to become a musician, or the
power to see a statue in a block of marble. That gift is not mine. I
have an almost invincible repugnance to poking into bushes and thrusting
aside branches to discover who has hidden there. Moreover, if a bird
seems anxious or alarmed, I never can bear to disturb her. Nor indeed do
I care