Phoebe ought to be unrivaled in musical ability, for surely that ashen-gray suit is the superlative of plainness; and that form, likewise, would hardly pass for a “perfect figure” of a bird.  The seasonableness of her coming, however, and her civil, neighborly ways, shall make up for all deficiencies in song and plumage.  After a few weeks phoebe is seldom seen, except as she darts from her moss-covered nest beneath some bridge or shelving cliff.

Another April comer, who arrives shortly after Robin-redbreast, with whom he associates both at this season and in the autumn, is the gold-winged woodpecker, alias “high-hole,” alias “flicker,” alias “yarup.”  He is an old favorite of my boyhood, and his note to me means very much.  He announces his arrival by a long, loud call, repeated from the dry branch of some tree, or a stake in the fence,—­a thoroughly melodious April sound.  I think how Solomon finished that beautiful description of spring, “And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land,” and see that a description of spring in this farming country, to be equally characteristic, should culminate in like manner,—­“And the call of the high-hole comes up from the wood.”

It is a loud, strong, sonorous call, and does not seem to imply an answer, but rather to subserve some purpose of love or music.  It is “Yarup’s” proclamation of peace and good-will to all.  On looking at the matter closely, I perceive that most birds, not denominated songsters, have, in the spring, some note or sound or call that hints of a song, and answers imperfectly the end of beauty and art.  As a “livelier iris changes on the burnished dove,” and the fancy of the young man turns lightly to thoughts of his pretty cousin, so the same renewing spirit touches the “silent singers,” and they are no longer dumb; faintly they lisp the first syllables of the marvelous tale.  Witness the clear sweet whistle of the gray-crested titmouse,—­the soft, nasal piping of the nuthatch,—­the amorous, vivacious warble of the bluebird,—­the long, rich note of the meadowlark,—­the whistle of the quail,—­the drumming of the partridge,—­the animation and loquacity of the swallows, and the like.  Even the hen has a homely, contented carol; and I credit the owls with a desire to fill the night with music.  Al birds are incipient or would be songsters in the spring.  I find corroborative evidence of this even in the crowing of the cock.  The flowering of the maple is not so obvious as that of the magnolia; nevertheless, there is actual inflorescence.

Few writers award any song to that familiar little sparrow, the Socialis; yet who that has observed him sitting by the wayside, and repeating, with devout attitude, that fine sliding chant, does not recognize the neglect?  Who has heard the snowbird sing?  Yet he has a lisping warble very savory to the ear.  I have heard him indulge in it even in February.