"In the deep, solemn wood, at dawn I hear A voice serene and pure, now far, now near, Singing sweetly, singing slowly. Holy; oh, holy, holy; Again at evening hush, now near, now far-- Oh, tell me, art thou voice of bird or star? Sounding sweetly, sounding slowly. Holy; oh, holy, holy." CHAPTER V THE GROSBEAKS Have you ever heard of the sing-away bird, That sings where the run-away river Runs down with its rills from the bald-headed hills That stand in the sunshine and shiver? Oh, sing, sing away, sing away! How the pines and the birches are stirred By the trill of the sing-away bird! And beneath the glad sun, every glad-hearted one Sets the world to the tune of its gladness; The swift rivers sing it, the wild breezes wing it. Till earth loses thought of her sadness. Oh, sing, sing away, sing away! Oh, sing, happy soul, to joy's giver-- Sing on, by Time's run-away river! Lucy Larcom. You would recognize it anywhere by its beak. And you may call this feature of the face a beak, or a nose, or a hand, or a pair of lips. In either case it is thick, heavy, prominent, the common characteristic of the grosbeaks. Individuals may differ in plumage, but always there is the thick, conical bill. "Oh, oh, what a big nose you've got!" and "Oh, oh, what a red nose it is!" we exclaimed, when we first met the cardinal face to face in a thicket. In a moment we had forgotten the shape and tint of the beak in the song that poured out of it. It was like forgetting the look of the big rocks between which gushes the waterfall in a mountain gorge. Not that the mouth of the grosbeak was built to accommodate its song, but, that being formed for other purposes, it nevertheless is a splendid flute. Whichever he may be, the cardinal or the black headed, or the blue or the rose breasted, the grosbeak is a splendid singer. On account of its gorgeous coloring, the cardinal is oftenest caged. But to those who love the wild birds best in their native freedom, the cardinal grosbeak imprisoned lacks the charm of manner which marks it in the tangle of wild grape-vines and blackberry thickets. Seldom still in the wild, unless it be singing, the red beauty flits and dodges between twigs, and dips into brush and careens through the thickest undergrowth of things that combine to hide it, now here, now there, and everywhere. One would think its bright coat a certain and quick token of its whereabouts, but so active is the lively fellow that it eludes even the sharpest eye, a stranger mistaking its gleam for a rift of sunlight through the treetops.