one dark patch of shrubbery, lo!
the strange silence was burst asunder by the rich, full song
of a nightingale.--WILLIAM BLACK, _Ibid._

A sudden sound sprang into the night, flooding all its
darkness with its rich and piercing melody--a joyous, clear,
full-throated note, deep-gurgling now, and again rising with
thrills and tremors into bursts of far-reaching silver song
that seemed to shake the hollow air. A single nightingale
had filled the woods with life. We cared no more for those
distant and silent stars. It was enough to sit here in the
gracious quiet and listen to the eager tremulous outpouring
of this honeyed sound.--WILLIAM BLACK, in _Strange
Adventures of a House-Boat_.

Shoot and eat my birds! The next step beyond, and one would
hanker after Jenny Lind or Miss Kellogg.--HENRY WARD
BEECHER.

There on the very topmost twig, that rises and falls with
willowy motion, sits that ridiculous, sweet-singing
bobolink, singing as a Roman candle fizzes, showers of
sparkling notes.--_Ibid._

This poet affirms that our bobolink is superior to the nightingale:--

Bobolink, that in the meadow,
Or beneath the orchard's shadow,
Keepest up a constant rattle
Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the North again,
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, thy black and white.
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;
Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel;
But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth
With thine endless, gushing mirth.

--THOMAS HILL.

The mocking bird is a singer that has suffered much from its
powers of mimicry. On ordinary occasions, and especially in
the daytime, it insists on playing the harlequin. But when
free in its own favorite haunts at night, it has a song, or
rather songs, which are not only purely original, but are
also more beautiful than any other bird music whatsoever.
Once I listened to a mocking bird singing the livelong
spring night, under the full moon, in a magnolia tree; and I
do not think I shall ever forget its song.

The great tree was bathed in a flood of shining silver; I
could see each twig, and mark every action of the singer,
who