tent and variety of his vocal powers;
and, besides the fulness and melody of his original notes, he has the
faculty of imitating the notes of all other birds, from the humming-bird
to the eagle. Pennant tells us that he heard a caged one, in England,
imitate the mewing of a cat and the creaking of a sign in high winds.
The Hon. Daines Barrington says, his pipe comes nearest to the
nightingale, of any bird he ever heard. The description, however, given
by Wilson, in his own inimitable manner, as far excels Pennant and
Barrington as the bird excels his fellow-songsters. Wilson tells that
the ease, elegance and rapidity of his movements, the animation of his
eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening and laying up
lessons, mark the peculiarity of his genius. His voice is full, strong,
and musical, and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear
mellow tones of the wood thrush to the savage scream of the bald eagle.
In measure and accents he faithfully follows his originals, while in
force and sweetness of expression he greatly improves upon them.
In his native woods, upon a dewy morning, his song rises above every
competitor, for the others seem merely as inferior accompaniments. His
own notes are bold and full, and varied seemingly beyond all limits.
They consist of short expressions of two, three, or at most five or six,
syllables, generally expressed with great emphasis and rapidity, and
continued with undiminished ardour, for half an hour or an hour at a
time. While singing, he expands his wings and his tail, glistening with
white, keeping time to his own music, and the buoyant gaiety of his
action is no less fascinating than his song. He sweeps round with
enthusiastic ecstasy, he mounts and descends as his song swells or dies
away; he bounds aloft, as Bartram says, with the celerity of an arrow,
as if to recover or recall his very soul, expired in the last elevated
strain. A bystander might suppose that the whole feathered tribes had
assembled together on a trial of skill; each striving to produce his
utmost effect, so perfect are his imitations. He often deceives the
sportsman, and even birds themselves are sometimes imposed upon by this
admirable mimic. In confinement he loses little of the power or energy
of his song. He whistles for the dog; Caesar starts up, wags his tail,
and runs to meet his master. He cries like a hurt chicken, and the hen
hurries about, with feathers on end, to protect her injure