t has a peculiar
fascination. He wanders from place to place,

"An invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery."

You will probably hear him a score of times to seeing him once. I rarely
discover him in the woods, except when on a protracted stay; but when in
June he makes his gastronomic tour of the garden and orchard, regaling
himself upon canker-worms, he is quite noticeable. Since food of some
kind is a necessity, he seems resolved to burden himself as little as
possible with the care of obtaining it, and so devours these creeping
horrors with the utmost matter-of-course air. At this time he is one of
the tamest birds in the orchard, and will allow you to approach within a
few yards of him. I have even come within a few feet of one without
seeming to excite his fear or suspicion. He is quite unsophisticated, or
else royally indifferent.

Without any exception, his plumage is the richest brown I am acquainted
with in Nature, and is unsurpassed in the qualities both of firmness and
fineness. Notwithstanding the disparity in size and color, he has
certain peculiarities that remind one of the Passenger-pigeon. His eye,
with its red circle, the shape of his head, and his motions on alighting
and taking flight, quickly suggest the resemblance; though in grace and
speed, when on the wing, he is far inferior. His tail seems
disproportionately long, like that of the Red Thrush, and his flight
among the trees is very still, contrasting strongly with the honest
clatter of the Robin or Pigeon.

Have you heard the song of the Field-Sparrow? If you have lived in a
pastoral country with broad upland pastures, you could hardly have
missed him. Wilson, I believe, calls him the Grass-Finch, and was
evidently unacquainted with his powers of song. The two white lateral
quills in his tail, and his habit of running and skulking a few yards in
advance of you as you walk through the fields, are sufficient to
identify him. Not in meadows or orchards, but in high, breezy
pasture-grounds, will you look for him. His song is most noticeable
after sundown, when other birds are silent; for which reason he has been
aptly called the Vesper-Sparrow. The farmer following his team from the
field at dusk catches his sweetest strain. His song is not so brisk and
varied as that of the Song-Sparrow, being softer and wilder, sweeter and
more plaintive. Add the best parts of the lay of the latter to the
sweet, vibrating chant of the Wood-Sparrow,