“While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear! 
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near!

“Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! 
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery.”

The black-billed is the only species found in my locality, the yellow-billed abounds farther south.  Their note or call is nearly the same.  The former sometimes suggests the voice of a turkey.  The call of the latter may be suggested thus:  k-k-k-k-k-kow, kow, kow-ow, kow-ow.

The yellow-billed will take up his stand in a tree, and explore its branches till he has caught every worm.  He sits on a twig, and with a peculiar swaying movement of his head examines the surrounding foliage.  When he discovers his prey, he leaps upon it in a fluttering manner.

In June the black-billed makes a tour through the orchard and garden, regaling himself upon the canker-worms.  At this time he is one of the tamest of birds, and will allow you to approach within a few yards of him.  I have even come within a few feet of one without seeming to excite his fear or suspicion.  He is quite unsophisticated, or else royally indifferent.

The plumage of the cuckoo is a rich glossy brown, and is unrivaled in beauty by any other neutral tint with which I am acquainted.  It is also remarkable for its firmness and fineness.

Notwithstanding the disparity in size and color, the black-billed species has certain peculiarities that remind one of the passenger pigeon.  His eye, with its red circle, the shape of his head, and his motions on alighting and taking flight, quickly suggest the resemblance; though in grace and speed, when on the wing, he is far inferior.  His tail seems disproportionately long, like that of the red thrush, and his flight among the trees is very still, contrasting strongly with the honest clatter of the robin or pigeon.

Have you heard the song of the field sparrow?  If you have lived in a pastoral country with broad upland pastures, you could hardly have missed him.  Wilson, I believe, calls him the grass finch, and was evidently unacquainted with his powers of song.  The two white lateral quills in his tail, and his habit of running and skulking a few yards in advance of you as you walk through the fields, are sufficient to identify him.  Not in meadows or orchards, but in high, breezy pasture-grounds, will you look for him.  His song is most noticeable after sundown, when other birds are silent; for which reason he has been aptly called the vesper sparrow.  The farmer following his team from the field at dusk catches his sweetest strain.  His song is not so brisk and varied as that of the song sparrow, being softer and wilder, sweeter and more plaintive.  Add the best parts of the lay of the latter to the sweet vibrating chant of the wood sparrow, and you have the evening hymn of the vesper-bird,—­the poet of the