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By Simeon Pease Cheney.

THE GOLDEN-WINGED WOODPECKER.

HE loud, monotonous vocalizing of this handsome bird is hardly song; still we often hear it said, "The woodwall is singing; we are going to have rain." The two-toned "rain-call" is his song, if he have one. The performance is long enough for a song, but rather narrow.

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If the cuckoo, whose song is so famous, can be called a singer, this woodpecker is a songster; for he performs oftener, longer, and louder than the cuckoo, using the same melodic variety of a minor second, which is the least possible.

The golden-wings are geniuses at a frolic. When two or more of them are together they have a brisk chase of it round and up the trunks of the great trees, and out on the big limbs, crying,

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We have no true singing-bird so large as this woodpecker. The bright hues of the tanager and the oriole may attract the eye quicker than his, but no other of our birds displays the whole world of color in every conceivable combination. These birds are frequenters of meadows and pastures; they like to be on the ground and to dig in it. When they rise, they swing away through the air in great billowy lines of indescribable grace. Wilson takes much pains in describing the ingenuity and perseverance of these birds in digging out their nests. "I have seen," he says, "where they had dug first five inches straight forward, and then downwards more than twice that distance through a solid black oak." He further states that they work "till a very late hour in the evening, thumping like carpenters"; also that "the male and female work alternately."

The golden-winged woodpecker has many surprises in store for them that do not know him. It will be somewhat startling when he simply calls the roll of his names : —

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The natives about Hudson's Bay call him On-thee-quan-nor-ow.

THE TITMOUSE, OR CHICKADEE.

It was a fortunate meeting of extremes when Emerson found the titmouse in the winter forest; for he went home and put his little friend on paper so surely that he can never fly away:

Here was this atom in full breath,
Hurling defiance at vast death;

This scrap of valor just for play

Fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray,

As if to shame my weak behavior.

The chickadees make very free with us in frosty weather; coming about our homes, they help themselves without question. If driven from the bit of meat hung up to "keep" in the cold, they utter a few "chick-a-dee-dee-dees," and fall to again as if nothing had happened. The "chickadee" notes, however, are their chat, not their song, though sometimes the song immediately follows. One clear, cold, March morning before sunrise, I was greeted with two tones,

Ear

2.

ly.

They thrilled me; never were purer tones heard on earth. Presently they were repeated, when I discovered a pair of chickadees on the limb of a small tree. The song came from one of them; and when he shot up and away, he left me with a new understanding of the value of purity of tone. Nearly all small birds sing rapidly, too rapidly for appreciative hearing; but this little songster somehow has found out that one pure minim is worth a whole strain of staccato demisemi-quavers. The chickadees sometimes employ a delightful form of response in their singing:

No. 2.

No. I.

No. 3.

No. 4.

THE CHIPPING SPARROW.

This trim little bird, one of the least of the sparrows, is not so great a singer as some others of the family, but none of them equal him in song devotion. At the close of day he may be heard from the house-top, from the ridge-pole of the barn, from the fence or the grass stubble. Dr. Coues says he has "at times a song quite different from the sharp, monotonous trill so characteristic of springtime"; and without doubt he has, but the monotonous " trill," being a succession of rapid tones upon the same degree, can hardly be called a "trill."

Chip-py, chip-py, chip - py, chip-py, chip-py, chip-py, chip-py chip-py, chip-py, chip-py, chip.

To look at these notes, it would seem impossible that any performance of them could be made acceptable; the hearing of them, however, relieved by the delicate accent and fervor of the singer, never fails to touch the heart of the listener.

The chipping sparrow sings at all hours, sometimes waking in the dead of night to perform his staccato serenade; but the evening twilight hour is his favorite time. If we have a vesper sparrow, it is he. None of our birds is more social and confiding. He comes for the crumbs about the door, and with little coaxing will light on your hand for them; and if there be vines over the doorway, you will be quite likely to find the lady's nest in them, maybe only a few inches above your head as you go in and out. The chipping sparrows prefer a bush for their summer home, but I have several times known them to build their beautiful hair-lined nests in a heavy-boughed spruce, ten or more feet from the ground.

THE FOX-COLORED SPARROW.

These song-loving sparrows have sweet voices and a pleasing song. No sparrow sings with a better quality of tone. They reach Massachusetts, on their journey North, generally by the 10th of April. They come in small flocks, tame birds, and partial to the ground. They scratch among the low bushes, often in the fresh snow, rising frequently a few feet to sit and sing; they also sing upon the ground. They are our largest sparrows, fine-looking birds, with reddish backs somewhat like those of the brown thrush.

Song of the Fox-colored Sparrow :

THE WHITE-THROATED SPARROW.

Familiar as the song of this bird is, few listeners suspect that it is sung by a sparrow. In an extreme northern town of Vermont, I often heard the song when a boy, but never the name of the singer; and I have rarely heard him named since. The knowing ones used to say the words of the song were, "All day long fid-dle-in', fid-dle-in', fid-dle-in'!" The little twelve-toned melody of this sparrow is a flash of inspiration— one of those lucky finds, such as the poets have the charm of which lies in its rhythm. Let us look at it :

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First come three long tones of equal length, forming together one-half of the song entire; then three clusters of three short tones, triplets, each cluster being equal to one of the long tones, and each of the short tones being equal to one-third of one of the long tones. How simple the construction for so pleasing a performance!

The white-throat sings moderately and with exactness, singing often, and usually with several of his fellows, each piping away in a key of his own. Heedless of pitch, striking in just as it happens, this independent little songster sometimes finds himself at the top of his voice and at a height of sound rarely reached by any other bird. The whistling quality of the white-throat's voice, and his deliberate method, make his song very distinct and distinctive. The responsive singing of several performers in the still woods (and out of them sometimes), continually introducing new keys, affords a unique entertainment. The form of the song already given is, undoubtedly, the true one, but I once heard the following variation:

Sva.

When the season is well advanced, the singers, seemingly grown weary of their song, begin to shorten it. At first they omit the last triplets; further on, they drop the second group, then the first group, then the third long note, till, finally, only the first two long notes remain. There is a touch of the comic in this farewell performance, as though the singer said, "There; you know the rest."

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THE LINNET: PURPLE FINCH: PURPLE GROSBEAK.

The linnet (this is the popular name) is a very spirited and charming singer, especially during the mating-season. A careful observer tells me he has seen him fly from the side of his mate directly upward fifteen or twenty feet, singing every instant in the

most excited manner till he dropped to the point of starting. The yellow-breasted chat has a like performance, and so has the woodcock. The linnet's style of singing is a warble, but his song is not short like the songs of the "warblers"; it is often a protracted extemporizing, difficult to represent. Some of the notes of the linnet :

Rapid and spirited.

The linnet has been described as "red" and also as "purple "; but really, he seems to be neither. He has a reddish back and neck, and his head is almost red. The female has no red in her complexion. The linnets are social, building in our orchards, but oftener in the evergreens. They are kind and peaceful birds, yet ever ready to avenge an insult to the death. The males do not reach their full plumage till the second or third year. If caged, after the first moulting in their confinement the wild colors do not return; the reddish tint is exchanged for a yellowish cast, and so remains.

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THE MOUNTAIN AND BRAHMA.

(A LEGEND FROM THE VEDAS.)

By Abbie M. Gannett.

BRAHMA, glorious Source of Life!" the lordly mountain cried;
"Thy bloom and beauty, freely given, I am alone denied ;

"The verdure of the glittering mead, the blossom of the sheltering tree,
The grace of lightly flying cloud, the grand voice of the sea,

"The charm of softly falling rain, the sparkle of the rivulet,Oh, none of all these gracious gifts in my stern life are set.

"My hoary head is capped with snow, and all adown my craggy sides Deep chasms yawn and torrents break; no joy with me abides.

"I bring no beauty to the world, and beauty that around I see, Fills me with ever vain regret for that denied to me."

Then, smiling, spoke the Lord of Life: "O mountain, set in rock and snow, Let thy unrestful heart be stilled, a greater truth to know.

"Beauty, and bloom, and grace, and song, pass quickly, aye, they pass away; But of the eternal things art thou, not of the fleeting day;

-how the grand word thrills!

"The type of an endurance strong, unchanging,
Even frail man hath writ of thee: 'The everlasting hills!'"

O thou in lonely places set! let this old legend tell to thee,
Who in himself doth nobly stand, of restless longings free,

Though reft of beauty, love, and joy, shall, in his own enduring strength,
Find in the long years of the soul, infinite peace at length.

I

POOR LITTLE MISS SEVERANCE.

A STORY OF NANTUCKET.

By Fanny Louise Weaver.

WAS rummaging the other day among some papers stowed away on the top shelf of the cupboard, when I came across that old diary of mine. I turned the crumpled leaves with a curious sensation. It was not much of a diary; it contained little beside the story of poor little Miss Severance; but it brought back to mind a great deal. It was written at Nantucket, in the summer of 1875. I was at that time a struggling young lawyer in Judge Holbrooke's office. Moreover and chiefly, I was in love with Helen Campbell, whose father was worth half a million. It is needless to say that I was poor; otherwise, everything would have been different; certain events that happened would not have happened; and this particular story would never have been written.

The chief cause of my misery during that year 1875 lay in my inability to convince Helen's father of my eligibility as a son-in-law. He would not consent to our engagement till I had "proved my mettle"; and in spite of Helen's tears and protestations that she could never love any one else, he took her off for a year's travel in Europe, -"to change the current of her thoughts," he said.

They sailed in June. We had a very difficult case just then, and I worked at it night and day with a feverish unrest. The result was that I came down with typhoid fever. When I was on my feet again, which was by the middle of August, I was sent down to Nantucket, to be built up. How it all came back to me, as I held that little book, the chronicle of those Nantucket days, in my hand!

Helen always wanted to see this diary. Now she should have her wish granted, after all these years that it had eluded us. I placed her in the little rocking-chair with a hassock at her feet, and settled myself to read:

NANTUCKET, August 24, 1875.

I have been here two weeks to-day. It seems like two months. The first week was mostly spent in hurling anathemas at Doctor Strong, for sending me to this out-of-the-way place; but I guess the old fellow knew what he was about. The air is delicious, and I am gradually yielding to the soothing effects of the quaint town. Have carried out the doctor's prescription to the letter. Have lounged on the wharves and whittled, whole mornings, watching the sail-boats, and staring at the light-house on Brant Point. Have eaten and slept, slept and eaten, and lived an oyster-like existence. Have made friends already with two or three regular "old salts." They are getting used to seeing me in my snug corner at the end of Straight Wharf, and are very ready to chat with me. The glory of the old whaling days creeps inevitably into all their talk. They only need an appreciative listener, to spin yarns by the hour. Afternoons, I stroll about the straggling streets with grass between the cobblestones, or ride horseback over the moors which are now covered with a ripe profusion of wild flowers. I watch the surf at the South Shore, and wonder if Helen is thinking of me over among the Alps.

August 27th.Went out fishing this morning with Captain Bunker, a hearty, weatherbeaten old mariner, who has been round the world twice and followed the sea for over forty years. He likes to talk when once he gets started, but at first his short, gruff answers rather keep one at bay. It needs a little diplomacy to draw him out. Caught two blue-fish. It is very exciting. My muscle is coming back under it.

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