Now come two black-coated cousins, the purple grackle and shoulder-strapped redwing of the blackbird family. Field hunters like the robin, but unlike the thrushes, when on the ground they are staid walkers instead of hoppers. These dusky beauties no sooner announce their arrival with songless cackling notes than they hurry away to inspect their last year’s nesting haunts, where scrambling clamor ensues for the most desirable locations. Like the crow they lose but little time in awaiting fine weather before preparing for housekeeping. Even before April’s soft showers commence falling, their bristling stick nests are in readiness, as are the crows’, jays’ and hawks’, while the owls’ wide-eyed nestlings are even then becoming fluffy balls of feathers in their better sheltered hollow-tree nests. But we must pass with but a word of greeting to the arrivals, would we keep pace with their increasing numbers. Now listen to the purple finch as he perches on highest twig, proclaiming his arrival with no uncertain sound. A very torrent of bubbling melody is he, though his breakfast may still be snow-enshrouded below. While he rests may be heard the meadowlark’s tremulous, plaintive diminuendo, as he alights from his halting, uncertain flight. Soon will follow the phœbe’s name-calling, tail-wagging cry and the barn swallow’s mumbling, metallic squeaking. His cliff or eaves-nesting cousin will a little later add his rasping notes as he repairs his plastered nest. In contrast to the swallow’s rhythmic chatter comes the oriole’s bugle call and flute-like whistle, which at evening was silent, but morning finds vocal. With increasing numbers, as the Mayflowers appear, come the crow-chasing kingbird and his twin-named fish-catcher. The first, with happy tinkling notes, the second with bill-chattering rattle. Again, morning hears the bobolink’s ecstatic songburst of tumultuous melody. Like ships he “passes in the night” and heralds his coming as no other can. Now the whippoorwill proclaims his apt naming, as evening closes in, while his nighthawk cousin booms an accompaniment as he wheels through the air above. The wood pigeon’s lament comes throbbing through the warm morning air, confirming his right to his other and better known “mourning dove” title. To drown the pigeon’s dirge-like plaint may now be heard the rollicking song of the goldfinch, his song and flight dipping in unison as he goes his careless way. With still another contrast comes the clucking cuckoo’s grumble as if in excuse for his tardy arrival. Now listen, for the chorus is complete! Though but few have been named, they are best known and with the unnamed larger half compose nature’s magnificent if sometimes inharmonious symphony. Among those unnamed are to be found many fully the equals of those so imperfectly represented in the preceding pen pictures. In fact, the wood thrushes and warblers unmentioned are as finished vocal performers as any of those heard in the open.