wren-songs generally, but much finer and more delicate than the song of any other variety known to me; beginning in a fine, round, needle-like note, and rising into a full, sustained warble, [symbol deleted] a strain, on whole, remarkably exquisite and pleasing, the singer being all the while as busy as a bee, catching some kind of insects.  It is certainly on of our most beautiful bird-songs, and Audubon’s enthusiasm concerning its song, as he heard it in the wilds of Labrador, is not a bit extravagant.  The song of the kinglet is the only characteristic that allies it to the wrens.

The Capitol grounds, with their fine large trees of many varieties, draw many kinds of birds.  In the rear of the building the extensive grounds are peculiarly attractive, being a gentle slope, warm and protected, and quite thickly wooded.  Here in early spring I go to hear the robins, catbirds, blackbirds, wrens, etc.  In March the white-throated and white-crowned sparrows may be seen, hopping about on the flower-beds or peering slyly from the evergreens.  The robin hops about freely upon the grass, notwithstanding the keepers large-lettered warning, and at intervals, and especially at sunset, carols from the treetops his loud, hearty strain.

The kingbird and orchard starling remain the whole season, and breed in the treetops.  The rich, copious song of the starling may be heard there all the forenoon.  The song of some birds is like scarlet,—­strong, intense, emphatic.  This is the character of the orchard starlings, also the tanagers and the various grosbeaks.  On the other hand, the songs of other birds, as of certain of the thrushes, suggest the serene blue of the upper sky.

In February one may hear, in the Smithsonian grounds, the song of the fox sparrow.  It is a strong, richly modulated whistle,—­the finest sparrow note I have ever heard.

A curious and charming sound may be heard here in May.  You are walking forth in the soft morning air, when suddenly there comes a burst of bobolink melody form some mysterious source.  A score of throats pour out one brief, hilarious, tuneful jubilee and are suddenly silent.  There is a strange remoteness and fascination about it.  Presently you will discover its source skyward, and a quick eye will detect the gay band pushing northward.  They seem to scent the fragrant meadows afar off, and shout forth snatches of their songs in anticipation.

The bobolink does not breed in the District, but usually pauses in his journey and feeds during the day in the grass-lands north of the city.  When the season is backward, they tarry a week or ten days, singing freely and appearing quite at home.  In large flocks they search over every inch of ground, and at intervals hover on the wing or alight in the treetops, all pouring forth their gladness at once, and filling the air with a multitudinous musical clamor.