mitation. Still it may be observed that in all cases he gives the
notes of those birds only whose voice resembles his own. Thus, he often
repeats the song of the Red-bird, but in doing this he varies his own
notes no more than he might do without meaning any imitation. Though he
repeats but few notes, he utters them with great variety of modulation.
Sometimes for several days he confines himself to a single strain, and
afterwards for about an equal space of time he will adopt another
strain. Sometimes he lengthens his brief notes into an extended melody,
and sings in a sort of ecstasy, like the birds of the Finch tribe. Such
musical paroxysms are exceedingly rare in his case, and seem to be
occasioned by some momentary exultation.

The Golden Robin rears but one brood of young in this part of the
country, and his cheerful notes are discontinued soon after the young
have left their nest. The song of the old bird seems after this period
hardly necessary to the offspring, who keep up an incessant chirping
from the moment of leaving their nest until they are able to accompany
the old ones to the woods, whither they retire in the latter part of
the season. It is remarkable, that, after a perfect silence of two or
three weeks after this time, the Golden Robins suddenly make their
appearance again for a few days, uttering the same merry notes with
which they hailed the arrival of summer. They soon disappear again, and
before autumn arrives they make their annual journey to the South,
where they pass the winter.

There is no singing-bird in New England that enjoys the notoriety of
the Bobolink (_Icterus agripennis_). He is like a rare wit in our
social or political circles. Everybody is talking about him and quoting
his remarks, and all are delighted with his company. He is not without
great merits as a songster; but he is well known and admired, because
he is showy, noisy, and flippant, and sings only in the open field, and
frequently while poised on the wing, so that everybody who hears him
can see him, and know who is the author of the strains that afford him
so much delight. He sings also at broad noonday, when everybody is out,
and is seldom heard before sunrise, while other birds are pouring forth
their souls in a united concert of praise. He waits until the sun is
up, and when most of the early performers have become silent, as if
determined to secure a good audience before exhibiting his powers.

The Bobolink, or Conq