My attention is soon arrested by a pair of hummingbirds, the ruby-throated, disporting themselves in a low bush a few yards from me.  The female takes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks exultingly as the male, circling above, dives down as if to dislodge her.  Seeing me, he drops like a feather on a slender twig, and in a moment both are gone.  Then as if by a preconcerted signal, the throats are all atune.  I lie on my back with eyes half closed, and analyze the chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches, and flycatchers; while, soaring above all, a little withdrawn and alone rises the divine contralto of the hermit.  That richly modulated warble proceeding from the top of yonder birch, and which unpracticed ears would mistake for the voice of the scarlet tanager, comes from that rare visitant, the rose-breasted grosbeak.  It is a strong, vivacious strain, a bright noonday song, full of health and assurance, indicating fine talents in the performer, but not a genius.  As I come up under the tree he casts his eye down at me, but continues his song.  This bird is said to be quite common in the Northwest, but he is rare in the Eastern districts.  His beak is disproportionately large and heavy, like a huge nose, which slightly mars his good looks; but Nature has made it up to him in a blush rose upon his breast, and the most delicate of pink linings to the under side of his wings.  His back is variegated black and white, and when flying low the white shows conspicuously.  If he passed over your head, you would not the delicate flush under his wings.

That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hemlock, glowing like a live coal against the dark background, seeming almost too brilliant for the severe northern climate, is his relative, the scarlet tanager.  I occasionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and know no stronger contrast in nature.  I almost fear he will kindle the dry limb on which he alights.  He is quite a solitary bird, and in this section seems to prefer the high, remote woods, even going quite to the mountain’s top.  Indeed, the event of my last visit to the mountain was meeting one of these brilliant creatures near the summit, in full song.  The breeze carried the notes far and wide.  He seemed to enjoy the elevation, and I imagined his song had more scope and freedom than usual.  When he had flown far down the mountain-side, the breeze still brought me his finest notes.  In plumage he is the most brilliant bird we have.  The bluebird is not entirely blue; nor will the indigo-bird bear a close inspection, nor the goldfinch, nor the summer redbird.  But the tanager loses nothing by a near view; the deep scarlet of his body and the black of his wings and tail are quite perfect.  This is his holiday suit; in the fall be becomes a dull yellowish green,—­the color of the female the whole season.