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Instead of the bobolink, one encounters here, in the June meadows, the black-throated bunting, a bird very closely related to the sparrows and a very persistent if not a very musical songster. He perches upon the fences and upon the trees by the roadside, and, spreading his tail, gives forth his harsh strain, which may be roughly worded thus: fscp fscp, fee fee fee.
It utters a low twittering call. Stachyrhis nigriceps. The black-throated babbler or wren-babbler. This is another small bird. Its general hue is olive brown. The throat is black, as is the head, but the latter has white streaks. It is common about Darjeeling and goes about in flocks that keep to trees. Stachyrhidopsis ruficeps. The red-headed babbler or wren-babbler.
A far sweeter strain, falling on the ear with the true sylvan cadence, is that of the black-throated green-backed warbler, whom I meet at various points. He has no superiors among the true Sylvia. The throat and breast of the male are a rich black like velvet, his face yellow, and his back a yellowish green.
I also noted the Canada warbler, the chestnut-sided warbler, and the black-throated blue-back, the latter most abundant of all. Up these mountain brooks, too, goes the belted kingfisher, swooping around through the woods when he spies the fisherman, then wheeling into the open space of the stream and literally making a "blue streak" down under the branches.
As I approached them, a little after sundown, a chipper was trilling, and song sparrows and golden warblers were singing, as were the black-throated greens also, and the Maryland yellow-throats. A wood thrush called brusquely, but offered no further salute to the god of day at his departure. Oven-birds were taking to wing on the right and left.
I have seen one of these birds fly to a branch in a tree, uttering its curious call, and then hop on to another branch in the same tree. Scarcely has it left the first branch when a second laughing-thrush flies to it; then a fourth, a fifth, and so on; so that the birds look as though they might be playing "Follow the man from Cook's." The black-throated jay is noisy even for a sociable bird.
Beyond the Barkpeeling, where the woods are mingled hemlock, beech, and birch, the languid midsummer note of the black-throated blue-back falls on my ear. "Twea, twea, twea-e-e!" in the upward slide, and with the peculiar z-ing of summer insects, but not destitute of a certain plaintive cadence. It is one of the most languid, unhurried sounds in all the woods.
The finest songster among the Sylvia, according to my notions, is the black-throated greenback. Its song is sweet and clear, but brief. The rarest of the species are Swainson's warbler, said to be disappearing; the cerulean warbler, said to be abundant about Niagara; and the mourning ground warbler, which I have found breeding about the head-waters of the Delaware, in New York.
Still something said, "Are you sure?" and I stepped inside the fence. There on the ground were two or three white-crowned sparrows, and in an instant the truth of the case flashed upon me. I remembered the saying of a friend, that the song of the white-crown had reminded him of the vesper sparrow and the black-throated green warbler.
They looked and saw the billowy sea, With its boundless rush of water's free, Belting the firm earth, far and wide, With the flow of its deep, untainted tide; And wondering viewed, in its clear blue flood, A quick and scaly-glancing brood, Sporting innumerous in the deep With dart, and plunge, and airy leap; And said, "Full sure a GOD doth reign King of this watery, wide domain, And rides in a car of cerulean hue O'er bounding billows of green and blue; And in one hand a three-pronged spear He holds, the sceptre of his fear, And with the other shakes the reins Of his steeds, with foamy, flowing manes, And coures o'er the brine; And when he lifts his trident mace, Broad Ocean crisps his darkling face, And mutters wrath divine; The big waves rush with hissing crest, And beat the shore with ample breast, And shake the toppling cliff: A wrathful god has roused the wave Vain is all pilot's skill to save, And lo! a deep, black-throated grave Ingulfs the reeling skiff."
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