d all through the trying season of
moulting he waited for me to bring a perch and restore him to the upper
regions where he belonged. He would have been easily tamed. Even with no
efforts toward it, he came on my desk freely, talked to me, with
quivering wings, and readily ate from my finger. The only show of
excitement, as he made these successive advancements, was the rising of
some part of his plumage. At one time he lifted the feathers around the
base of his head, so that he appeared to have on a cap a little too big,
with a fringe on the edge; and on his first alighting on the arm of the
chair where I sat, the feathers over his ears stood out like ear-muffs.

[Illustration: STUDYING THE BLUE JAY--SOLITAIRE AND BLUE JAY]

[Sidenote: _IMITATING THE JAY._]

When at last the clarin and the blue jay were left nearly alone in the
room, I noticed that the clarin began watching with interest the
movements of the jay. They had never come in collision, except of the
voice above mentioned, because the jay preferred the floor, chairs, and
desk, and seldom touched the perches, while the clarin nearly lived
upon them. But after some study the latter clearly made up his mind to
try the places his larger room-mate liked so well. He had already
learned to go upon the desk and ask for currants, which in the absence
of fresh berries I kept soaking in a little covered dish. If, after
asking as plainly as eloquent looks and significant movements of wings
could, I did not take the hint and give him some, he flew over my head,
just touching it as he passed. But now, having resolved to imitate the
jay, he went to the floor, and tried all of his chosen retreats: the
lower rounds of the chair, my rockers, my knee, and the back of a chair
sacred to the jay. During these excursions into unknown regions he
discovered that warm air came out of the register, and apparently
thinking he had discovered summer, he perched on the water-cup that hung
before it, spread his feathers, and seemed as happy as if he had really
found that genial season.

Who can describe the song of a bird? Poets and prose writers alike have
lavished epithets on nightingale and mockingbird, wood thrush and veery,
yet who, till he heard one, could imagine what its song was like? Yet I
must speak of it.

Singing was always a serious matter with my bird; that is, he never sang
while eating or flying about, interpolating his exquisite notes between
two mouthfuls, or droppin