BIRDS. ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY ================================ VOL. II. SEPTEMBER NO. 3 ================================ BIRD SONG. How songs are made Is a mystery, Which studied for years Still baffles me. --R. H. STODDARD. "Some birds are poets and sing all summer," says Thoreau. "They are the true singers. Any man can write verses in the love season. We are most interested in those birds that sing for the love of music, and not of their mates; who meditate their strains and amuse themselves with singing; the birds whose strains are of deeper sentiment." Thoreau does not mention by name any of the poet-birds to which he alludes, but we think our selections for the present month include some of them. The most beautiful specimen of all, which is as rich in color and "sun-sparkle" as the most polished gem to which he owes his name, the Ruby-throated Humming Bird, cannot sing at all, uttering only a shrill mouse-like squeak. The humming sound made by his wings is far more agreeable than his voice, for "when the mild gold stars flower out" it announces his presence. Then "A dim shape quivers about Some sweet rich heart of a rose." He hovers over all the flowers that possess the peculiar sweetness that he loves--the blossoms of the honeysuckle, the red, the white, and the yellow roses, and the morning glory. The red clover is as sweet to him as to the honey bee, and a pair of them may often be seen hovering over the blossoms for a moment, and then disappearing with the quickness of a flash of light, soon to return to the same spot and repeat the performance. _Squeak, squeak!_ is probably their call note. Something of the poet is the Yellow Warbler, though his song is not quite as long as an epic. He repeats it a little too often, perhaps, but there is such a pervading cheerfulness about it that we will not quarrel with the author. _Sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweeter-sweeter!_ is his frequent contribution to the volume of nature, and all the while he is darting about the trees, "carrying sun-glints on his back wherever he goes." His song is appropriate to every season, but it is in the spring, when we hear it first, that it is doubly welcome to the ear. The grateful heart asks with Bourdillon: "What tidings hath the Warbler heard That bids him leave the lands of summer For woods and fields where April yields Bleak welcome to the blithe newcomer?"