which I count six varieties, some gigantic ones nearly shoulder-high.

At the foot of a rough, scraggly yellow birch, on a bank of club-moss,
so richly inlaid with partridge-berry and curious shining
leaves--with here and there in the bordering a spire of false
wintergreen strung with faint pink flowers and exhaling the breath of
a May orchard--that it looks too costly a couch for such an idler, I
recline to note what transpires. The sun is just past the meridian,
and the afternoon chorus is not yet in full tune. Most birds sing with
the greatest spirit and vivacity in the forenoon, though there are
occasional bursts later in the day in which nearly all voices join;
while it is not till the twilight that the full power and solemnity of
the thrush's hymn is felt.

My attention is soon arrested by a pair of hummingbirds, the
ruby-throated, disporting themselves in a low bush a few yards from
me. The female takes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks exultingly
as the male, circling above, dives down as if to dislodge her. Seeing
me, he drops like a feather on a slender twig, and in a moment both
are gone. Then as if by a preconcerted signal, the throats are all
atune. I lie on my back with eyes half closed, and analyze the chorus
of warblers, thrushes, finches, and flycatchers; while, soaring above
all, a little withdrawn and alone rises the divine contralto of the
hermit. That richly modulated warble proceeding from the top of yonder
birch, and which unpracticed ears would mistake for the voice of the
scarlet tanager, comes from that rare visitant, the rose-breasted
grosbeak. It is a strong, vivacious strain, a bright noonday song,
full of health and assurance, indicating fine talents in the
performer, but not a genius. As I come up under the tree he casts his
eye down at me, but continues his song. This bird is said to be quite