it resembled the initial efforts of
cage-birds, when spring tunes their throats. The notes seemed hard to
get out; they were weak, uncertain, fluttering, as if the singer were
practicing something quite new. But as the days went by they grew strong
and assured, and at last were a joyous and loud morning greeting. I
don't know why I should be so surprised to hear a kingbird sing; for I
believe that one of the things we shall discover, when we begin to study
birds alive instead of dead, is that every one has a song, at least in
spring, when, in the words of an enthusiastic bird-lover, "the smallest
become poets, often sublime songsters." I have already heard several
sing that are set down as lacking in that mode of expression.

To return to my kingbird, struggling with his early song. After
practicing perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, he left his perch, flew
across the yard, and circled around the top bough, with his usual
good-morning to his partner, who at once slipped off and went for her
breakfast, while he stayed to watch the nest.

This magic dawn could not last. It grew lighter; the sun was bestirring
himself. I heard oars on the bay; and now that the sounds of men began,
the robin mounted the fence and sang his waking song. The rogue!--he had
been "laughing" and shouting for an hour. "Awake! awake!" he seemed to
say; and on our dreamy beds we hear him, and think it the first sound of
the new day. Then, too, came the jubilee of the English sparrow,
welcoming the appearance of mankind, whose waste and improvidence supply
so easily his larder. Why should he spend his time hunting insects? The
kitchen will open, the dining-room follows, and crumbs are sure to
result. He will wait, and meanwhile do his best to waken his purveyor.

I found this to be the almost invariable programme of kingbird life at
this period: after matins, the singer flew to the nest tree, and his
spouse went to her breakfast; in a few seconds he dropped to the edge of
the nest, looked long and earnestly at the contents, then flew to one of
his usual perching-places near by, and remained in silence till he saw
the little mother coming. During the day he relieved her at the
intervals mentioned, and at night, when she had settled to rest, he
stayed at his post on the fence till almost too dark to be seen, and
then took his way, with a good-night greeting, to his sleeping-place on
the poplar.

Thus matters went through June till the 29th, when, a