has once or twice heard the song in the night. For while spending a
few days at a New Hampshire hotel, which was surrounded with fine lawns
such as the grass finch delights in, I happened to be awake in the
morning, long before sunrise,--when, in fact, it seemed like the dead of
night,--and one or two of these sparrows were piping freely. The sweet
and gentle strain had the whole mountain valley to itself. How beautiful
it was, set in such a broad "margin of silence," I must leave to be
imagined. I noticed, moreover, that the birds sang almost incessantly
the whole day through. Much of the time there were two singing
antiphonally. Manifestly, the lines had fallen to them in pleasant
places: at home for the summer in those luxuriant Sugar-Hill fields, in
continual sight of yonder magnificent mountain panorama, with Lafayette
himself looming grandly in the foreground; while they, innocent souls,
had never so much as heard of hotel-keepers and their bills. "Happy
commoners," indeed! Their "songs in the night" seemed nowise surprising.
I fancied that I could be happy myself in such a case.

Our familiar and ever-welcome snow-bird, known in some quarters as the
black chipping-bird, and often called the black snow-bird, has a long
trill, not altogether unlike the common chipper's, but in a much higher
key. It is a modest lay, yet doubtless full of meaning; for the singer
takes to the very tip of a tree, and throws his head back in the most
approved style. He does his best, at any rate, and so far ranks with the
angels; while, if my testimony can be of any service to him, I am glad
to say ('t is too bad the praise is so equivocal) that I have heard many
human singers who gave me less pleasure; and further, that he took an
indispensable though subordinate part in what was one of the most
memorable concerts at which I was ever happy enough to be a listener.
This was given some years ago in an old apple-orchard by a flock of
fox-colored sparrows, who, perhaps for that occasion only, had the
"valuable assistance" of a large choir of snow-birds. The latter were
twittering in every tree, while to this goodly accompaniment the
sparrows were singing their loud, clear, thrush-like song. The
combination was felicitous in the extreme. I would go a long way to hear
the like again.

If distinction cannot be attained by one means, who knows but that it
may be by another? It is denied us to be great? Very well, we can at
least try the effec