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An even more interesting bird of the woods is the Hooded Sparrow, interesting because so little known. Here I found it on its breeding-grounds, a little late for its vernal song, but in September we heard its autumnal renewal like the notes of its kinsmen, White-throat and White-crowned Sparrows, but with less whistling, and more trilled.
"Bung yer eye! bung yer eye!" Thorpe found himself at the edge of the woods facing a little glade into which streamed the radiance of a full moon. There he stood and looked silently, not understanding, not caring to inquire. Across the way a white-throat was singing, clear, beautiful, like the shadow of a dream. The girl stood listening.
The missel-thrush has a harsh scream; the jay a note like "wrack," "wrack;" the fieldfare a rasping chatter; the blackbird, which is our robin cut in ebony, will sometimes crow like a cock and cackle like a hen; the flocks of starlings make a noise like a steam saw-mill; the white-throat has a disagreeable note; the swift a discordant scream; and the bunting a harsh song.
A Citizen of North America from Canada southward, nesting north of the Middle States. A regular member of the guild of Weed Warriors, and in summer belonging also to the Seed Sowers and Ground Gleaners. "The White-throat is another bird that you will not see in his summer home, unless you look for him in the Northern States.
If the bird sat on the nest while the egg was laid, the weight of its body would crush the nest and cause it to be forsaken, and thus one of the ends of Providence would be defeated. I have found the eggs of the cuckoo in the nest of a white-throat, built in so small a hole in a garden wall that it was absolutely impossible for the cuckoo to have got into it."
After all, I thought, home is in the valley; but the whistle of the white-throat reminded me that I was not yet back in Massachusetts. "The fatherless and the widow ... shall eat and be satisfied." DEUTERONOMY xiv. 29. On the 1st of June, 1890, I formally broke away from ornithological pursuits.
The white-throat is one of the birds for whom I cherish a special liking. On my first trip to the mountains I jumped off the train for a moment at Bartlett, and had hardly touched the ground before I heard his familiar call. Here, then, was Mr. Peabody at home.
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