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.  His song is very plain and simple, but remarkably pure and tender, and might be indicated by straight lines, thus [2 dashes, square root symbol, high dash]; the first two marks representing two sweet, silvery notes, in the same pitch of voice, and quite unaccented; the latter marks, the concluding notes, wherein the tone and inflection are changed.  The throat and breast of the male are a rich black like velvet, his face yellow, and his back a yellowish green.

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.  I feel like reclining upon the dry leaves at once.  Audubon says he has never heard his love-song; but this is all the love-song he has, and he is evidently a very plain hero with his little brown mistress.  He assumes few attitudes, and is not a bold and striking gymnast, like many of his kindred.  He has a preference for dense woods of beech and maple, moves slowly amid the lower branches and smaller growths, keeping from eight to ten feet from the ground, and repeating now and then his listless, indolent strain.  His back and crown are dark blue; his throat and breast, black; his belly, pure white; and he has a white spot on each wing.

Here and there I meet the black and white creeping warbler, whose fine strain reminds me of hairwire.  It is unquestionably the finest bird-song to be heard.  Few insect strains will compare with it in this respect; while it has none of the harsh, brassy character of the latter, being very delicate and tender.

That sharp, uninterrupted, but still continued warble, which before one has learned to discriminate closely, he is apt to confound with the red-eyed vireo’s, is that of the solitary warbling vireo,—­a bird slightly larger, much rarer, and with a louder less cheerful and happy strain.  I see him hopping along lengthwise of the limbs, and note the orange tinge of his breast and sides and the white circle around his eye.

But the declining sun and the deepening shadows admonish me that this ramble must be brought to a close, even though only the leading characters in this chorus of forty songsters have been described, and only a small portion of the venerable old woods explored.  In a secluded swampy corner of the old Barkpeeling, where I find the great purple orchis in bloom, and where the foot of man or beast seems never to have trod, I linger long, contemplating the wonderful display of lichens and mosses that overrun both the smaller and the larger growths.  Every bush and branch and sprig is dressed up in the most rich and fantastic of liveries; and, crowning all, the long bearded moss festoons the branches or sways gracefully from the limbs.  Every twig looks a century old, though green leaves tip the end of it.  A young yellow birch has a venerable, patriarchal look, and seems ill at ease under such premature honors.  A decayed hemlock is draped as if by hands for some solemn festival.