My wood pewee—a particular bird in a grove4 near by—whistled pretty constantly till the 17th, and a warbling vireo was still true to his name on the 19th. I have heard no yellow-throated vireos since the 6th, and conclude that they must have taken their departure. May joy go with them. This morning, for the first time in several weeks, a pine warbler was trilling. Song sparrows have grown numerous within a few days, but are almost entirely5 silent. One fellow sang his regular song—not his confused autumnal warble—on the 19th. I had not heard it before since the month opened.
No blackpoll warblers showed themselves with me till the 18th, though I had word of their presence elsewhere a few days earlier. On that day I saw three; yesterday and to-day have shown but one bird each. The movement is barely begun.
I should like to know how common it is for blackpolls to sing on their southward migration. Eleven years ago, in September, 1889, they came very early,—or I had the good fortune to see them very early,—and on the 4th and 5th of the month a few were “in full song,” so my notes record, “quite as long and full as in May.” I had never heard them sing before in autumn, nor have I ever had that pleasure since. Neither have I ever again seen them so early. Probably the two things—the song and the exceptional date—were somehow connected. At the time, I took the circumstance as an indication that the adult males migrate in advance of the great body of the species; and I fancied that, having detected them once thus early and thus musical, I should be likely to repeat the experience. If I am ever to do so, however, I must be about it. Eleven years is a large slice out of an adult man’s remaining allowance.
On the 18th I found a single olive-backed thrush, silent, in company with a flock of robins, or in the same grove with them—a White Mountain bird, thrice welcome; and this morning a few white-throated sparrows appeared. The first one that I saw—the only one, in fact—was a young fellow, and as I caught sight of him facing me, with his clear white throat, and his breast prettily7 streaked8, with a wash of color across it, I was half in doubt what to call him. While I was taking observations upon his plumage, trying to make him look like himself, he began to chip, as if to help me out, and a second one unseen fell to singing near by; a very feeble and imperfect rendering9 of the dear old tune6, but well marked by the “Peabody” triplets. It was a true touch of autumn, a voice from the hills.
Shortly before this I had spent a long time in watching the actions of a Lincoln finch10. He was feeding upon Roman worm-wood seeds by the roadside, in company with two or three chipping sparrows; very meek11 and quiet in his demeanor12, and happily not disposed to resent my inquisitiveness13, which I took pains to render as little offensive as possible. I had not seen the like of him since May, and have seen so few of his race at any time that every new one still makes for me an hour of agreeable excitement.
In the same neighborhood an indigo14-bird surprised me with a song. He was as badly out of voice as the white-throat, but his spirit was good, and he sang several times over. One would never have expected music from him, to look at his plumage. The indigo color was largely moulted away—only the rags of it left. It was really pitiful to see him; so handsome a coat, now nothing but shreds15 and patches. Most likely he was not a traveler from farther north, but a lingering summer resident of our own, as I remember to have seen three birds of his name in the same spot fifteen days ago. It would be interesting to know whether bright creatures of this kind do not feel humiliated16 and generally unhappy when they find their beauty dropping away from them, like leaves from the branch, as the summer wanes17.
The best bird of the month, so far,—better even than the Lincoln finch,—was a Philadelphia vireo, happened upon all unexpectedly on the 17th. I had stopped, as I always do in passing, to look down into a certain dense18 thicket19 of shrubbery, through which a brook20 runs, a favorite resort for birds of many kinds. At first the place seemed to be empty, but in answer to some curiosity-provoking noises on my part a water thrush started up to balance himself on a branch directly under my nose, and the next moment a vireo hopped21 into full sight just beyond him; a vireo with plain back and wings, with no dark lines bordering the crown, and having the under parts of a bright yellow. He was most obliging; indeed, he could hardly have been more so, unless he[72] had sung for me, and that was something not fairly to be expected. For a good while he kept silence. Then, in response to a jay’s scream, he began snarling22, or complaining, after the family manner. I enjoyed the sight of him as long as I could stay (he was the second one I had ever seen with anything like certainty), and when I returned, an hour later, he was still there, and still willing to be looked at.
And then, to heighten my pleasure, a rose-breasted grosbeak, invisible, but not far away, broke into a strain of most entrancing music; with no more than half his spring voice, to be sure, but with all his May sweetness of tone and inflection. Again and again he sang, as if he were too happy to stop. I had heard nothing of the kind for weeks, and shall probably hear nothing more for months. It was singing to be remembered, like Sembrich’s “Casta Diva,” or Nilsson’s “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”
Scarlet23 tanagers are still heard and seen occasionally,—one was calling to-day,—but none of them in tune, or wearing so much as a single scarlet feather. Here and there, too, as we wander about the woods, we meet—once in two or three days, perhaps—a lonesome-acting, silent red-eyed vireo. A great contrast there is between such solitary24 lingerers and the groups of gossiping chickadees that one falls in with in the same places; so merry-hearted, so bubbling over with high spirits, so ready to be neighborly. When I whistle to them, and they whistle back, I feel myself befriended.
Within a few days we must have the grand September influx25 of warblers—crowds of blackpolls, myrtles, black-throated greens, and many more. For two months yet the procession will be passing.
点击收听单词发音
1 migration | |
n.迁移,移居,(鸟类等的)迁徙 | |
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2 robins | |
n.知更鸟,鸫( robin的名词复数 );(签名者不分先后,以避免受责的)圆形签名抗议书(或请愿书) | |
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3 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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4 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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5 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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6 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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7 prettily | |
adv.优美地;可爱地 | |
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8 streaked | |
adj.有条斑纹的,不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 );使布满条纹 | |
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9 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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10 finch | |
n.雀科鸣禽(如燕雀,金丝雀等) | |
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11 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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12 demeanor | |
n.行为;风度 | |
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13 inquisitiveness | |
好奇,求知欲 | |
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14 indigo | |
n.靛青,靛蓝 | |
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15 shreds | |
v.撕碎,切碎( shred的第三人称单数 );用撕毁机撕毁(文件) | |
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16 humiliated | |
感到羞愧的 | |
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17 wanes | |
v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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18 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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19 thicket | |
n.灌木丛,树林 | |
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20 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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21 hopped | |
跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 ); 单足蹦跳; 齐足(或双足)跳行; 摘葎草花 | |
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22 snarling | |
v.(指狗)吠,嗥叫, (人)咆哮( snarl的现在分词 );咆哮着说,厉声地说 | |
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23 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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24 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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25 influx | |
n.流入,注入 | |
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