ckness of
a flash of light, soon to return to the same spot and repeat the
performance. _Squeak, squeak!_ is probably their call note.

Something of the poet is the Yellow Warbler, though his song is not
quite as long as an epic. He repeats it a little too often, perhaps, but
there is such a pervading cheerfulness about it that we will not quarrel
with the author. _Sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweeter-sweeter!_ is his
frequent contribution to the volume of nature, and all the while he is
darting about the trees, "carrying sun-glints on his back wherever he
goes." His song is appropriate to every season, but it is in the spring,
when we hear it first, that it is doubly welcome to the ear. The
grateful heart asks with Bourdillon:

"What tidings hath the Warbler heard
That bids him leave the lands of summer
For woods and fields where April yields
Bleak welcome to the blithe newcomer?"

The Mourning Dove may be called the poet of melancholy, for its song
is, to us, without one element of cheerfulness. Hopeless despair is in
every note, and, as the bird undoubtedly does have cheerful moods, as
indicated by its actions, its song must be appreciated only by its
mate. _Coo-o, coo-o!_ suddenly thrown upon the air and resounding near
and far is something hardly to be extolled, we should think, and yet the
beautiful and graceful Dove possesses so many pretty ways that every one
is attracted to it, and the tender affection of the mated pair is so
manifest, and their constancy so conspicuous, that the name has become
a symbol of domestic concord.

The Cuckoo must utter his note in order to be recognized, for few
that are learned in bird lore can discriminate him save from his
notes. He proclaims himself by calling forth his own name, so that it
is impossible to make a mistake about him. Well, his note is an agreeable
one and has made him famous. As he loses his song in the summer months,
he is inclined to make good use of it when he finds it again. English
boys are so skillful in imitating the Cuckoo's song, which they do to an
exasperating extent, that the bird himself may often wish for that of
the Nightingale, which is inimitable.

But the Cuckoo's song, monotonous as it is, is decidedly to be preferred
to that of the female House Wren, with its _Chit-chit-chit-chit_, when
suspicious or in anger. The male, however, is a real poet, let us
say--and sings a merry roulade, sudden, abruptly ended, and frequently