ay suit is the
superlative of plainness; and that form, likewise, though it might pass
for the "perfect figure" of a bird, measured by Joe Gargery's standard,
to a fastidious taste would present exceptionable points. The
seasonableness of her coming, however, and her civil, neighborly ways,
shall make up for all deficiencies in song and plumage, and remove any
suspicions we may have had, that, perhaps, from some cause or other, she
was in some slight disfavor with Nature. After a few weeks Phoebe is
seldom seen, except as she darts from her moss-covered nest beneath some
bridge or shelving cliff.

Another April comer, who arrives shortly after Robin-Redbreast, with
whom he associates both at this season and in the autumn, is the
Golden-Winged Woodpecker, _alias_, "High-Hole," _alias_, "Flicker,"
_alias_, "Yarup." He is an old favorite of my boyhood, and his note to
me means very much. He announces his arrival by a long, loud call,
repeated from the dry branch of some tree, or a stake in the fence,--a
thoroughly melodious April sound. I think how Solomon finished that
beautiful climax on Spring, "And the voice of the turtle is heard in our
land," and see that a description of Spring in this farming country, to
be equally characteristic, should culminate in like manner,--"And the
call of the High-Hole comes up from the wood."

It is a loud, strong, sonorous call, and does not seem to imply an
answer, but rather to subserve some purpose of love or music. It is
"Yarup's" proclamation of peace and good-will to all. On looking at the
matter closely, I perceive that most birds, not denominated songsters,
have, in the spring, some note or sound or call that hints of a song,
and answers imperfectly the end of beauty and art. As a "brighter iris
comes upon the burnished dove," and the fancy of the young man turns
lightly to thoughts of his pretty cousin, so the same renewing spirit
touches the "silent singers," and they are no longer dumb; faintly they
lisp the first syllables of the marvellous tale. Witness the clear,
sweet whistle of the Gray-Crested Titmouse,--the soft, nasal piping of
the Nuthatch,--the amorous, vivacious warble of the Bluebird,--the long,
rich note of the Meadow-Lark,--the whistle of the Quail,--the drumming
of the Partridge,--the animation and loquacity of the Swallows, and the
like. Even the Hen has a homely, contented carol; and I credit the Owls
with a desire to fill the night with music. All birds are