Not long ago I heard some one say, "The orioles don't sing as they used to." The tone bespoke a state of feeling such as Solomon certainly meant to reprehend when he wrote, "Say not thou, What is the cause that the former days were better than these?" I, too, had noticed that the orioles were not singing as they used to sing year before last; and year before last I noticed a distinct variation in their songs from the previous year. The fullest phrase I ever heard from an oriole consisted of seven notes, thus:

I took it down on paper right out of his mouth, and all the orioles I happened to hear for a long time after gave the same number and arrangement of notes, with the same rhythm, like a bugle-call. Then - very gradually it came about — I learned to listen for a variation in this perfect musical phrase. It was at the beginning of my interest in birds, and, being without assistance from people or books, it took me some years to recognize their songs by the tones, not by the themes. Thus I lost my orioles for a time, often thinking I was listening to some other bird. Then discovering that there were two kinds of oriole, I naturally explained the difference to myself by this fact. But the orchard oriole is by no means a common bird in our region, and now, as the result of watching the gay and gorgeous individual of the Baltimore class that builds year after year outside my window, I am convinced that these birds never give quite the same song for many consecutive seasons. For a number of years this outdoor neighbor of mine used to come with the following cheerful greeting, cheerful, with a pretty slurring note of sentiment:

I'm here, my love, I'm here.

For so did the mellow notes plainly seem to speak. I could not feel certain that he meant me, particularly when I spied his not too coy companion blazing about the larchtree; yet I always answered him back, that he might know he was welcome. Here was substantially the same phrase, less one

note, but the bold joyousness that I had come to associate with him was wanting. Gradually he docked his song yet more, so that for the last year or two it has been, "I'm here, my love," or only the curt announcement, "I'm here." And I will add that all his relatives in the town where I live have of late been similarly sparing in their remarks.

So much for a single class. But I have noticed the same thing in many other kinds of bird, — the song sparrow, for instance. The song sparrow has the most elaborate theme of any that may be called the simpler singers, as contrasted with the bobolink, the catbird, the mocking-bird.

This summer, a friend told me that she was "able to detect by their songs the nine different kinds of song sparrow." She was very triumphant over it, and it gave me pain to explain to her what, from my own observation, I believed to be the truth, namely, that there are almost as many different songs as there are song sparrows; moreover, that not only do individuals among them differ from one another in their arrangement of the three parts of their theme, or in the finish they bestow upon the separate parts, but the individual himself varies his notes from time to time, taking endless liberties with them according as the spirit moves him or his vocal powers permit. He may choose to stop short at the trill, though this is a rare occurrence; more often he begins with it, ending with the three sharp notes. Again, he practices the turn which at best is an uncertain phrase, singing it over by itself a number of times; quite discontented, it would seem, with its indeterminate character. Then, perhaps, he bursts out in a reckless, don't-care manner, as if snapping his claws at practice and perfection, jumbling his notes together like a music-box suddenly gone mad. It is a mistake to think that all the birds of a kind are equally gifted with all their fellows, as if they were little mechanical toys struck off by the gross, and warranted to produce precisely the same song. Why should it be so? Men differ in this respect; so do various domestic animals, — all of them, for aught I know. Two black-and-tan terriers living next door to each other have distinctive barks; the one can boast of a far wider compass than his friend, - I mean

So, when we reflect that, next to man, the singing bird is, in the matter of vocal gifts, the most highly endowed of beings, it is hardly remarkable except for the reason that people do not generally remark it that he should have also the gift of varying expression.

Lately, I was obliged to stand up for the English sparrow's powers of vocalization. (I have undergone much contumely in his defense on the score of morals.) Three intelligent, well-bred people sat in a row and simultaneously laughed me to scorn because I asserted that this canaille, at certain times of the year, has a very sweet and winning voice. (Methought I heard some one snicker just now.)

Robins' voices vary widely. There be virago robins that shriek; nervous robins that jerk out their tones; lymphatic, conscientious robins that vocalize perfunctorily, giving never a note more or less, nor a compromising intonation. Then there are the rich-natured robins, whose capacity for joy and affection is expressed in the softest, richest, fullest sounds, in songs suggesting much more than mere unaccompanied melody, so sweet that the harmonies of each tone seem to be audible.

Does it sound fanciful to speak so of birds? I have long thought that the voice, above all other physical manifestations, is the person; I have learned to go by it largely in the interpretation of character. Few, perhaps, will grant me much in the way of bird personality. For my own part, I am willing to accept a psychology for pigs; I question whether every common porker can be made proficient in whist. I will swear that I have discovered "odds" in mosquitoes; there are gourmets and gormandizers among them, while in their

operatics" a sensitive ear may find scope for a wide exercise of taste. (I like the screamers, because they are the easiest caught.)

Wood thrushes make known their minute personalities by the differing musicalness that is in their throats. Sometimes they utter only the harsh click of the cicada, or squeak like the hinges of a little gate that needs oiling. I cannot be made to believe that a wood thrush with such a voice has the same soul-traits as that last wood thrush I heard. I did not see him, — one hardly ever sees him ; I could not tell whether he was far or near. He seemed to be far, very far, yet his song was near: it filled all the wood, not with its loudness, but with its penetrativeness. It gave me a deliciously superstitious feeling, a mythological thrill, a strange sense of extreme ancientness; I was no analytic, investigating modern, but a simple, savage being with a rudimentary soul. I stood amid deep forests of the Ur-Welt, and heard tales of a vast past and a vaster future in the magic strains of this Prophet Bird."

66

Over-Refined Pronunciation.

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In the September number of the Contributors' Club, in the article Impressions of the Theatre, a writer says: "Her enunciation, whether she spoke or sang, was perfect, - clear and well defined. When she came to the word 'maiden,' for example, the two syllables 'mai-den 'must have dropped like pearls in the remotest corner of the upper gallery. In fact, her whole performance showed long and careful training," etc.

Of course, enunciation is not pronunciation, but does not the writer of the words quoted imply that "mai-den" is a good pronunciation of "maiden"? As a matter of fact, however, is not such a pronunciation as objectionable as 66 hea-ven" for "hev-vn," "e-vil " for "e-vl,” “dě-vil” for "dev-vl"?

Is not over-refined pronunciation more objectionable than careless pronunciation ? We all know persons who say "a-gain with frightfully exact inaccuracy. “Citizen" is another word that suffers in a similar way, and there are those who make a religion of "at all." Cannot some new and ingenious form of torture be invented as a punishment for those ignorantly exact cacoepists who inflict such sufferings on their fellow-beings?

An Organ In--I could never tell how it hapterlude. pened, whether because our engineers had lost their way, as had been alleged of the great Pathfinder when he essayed these same regions, or whether our negro guide had fallen asleep in the hot sun, and so been left behind, but we were lost. The battlefield of Piedmont lay behind us, the Natural Bridge was on our left, and Staunton, our objective point, was— where?

After wandering hopelessly for some time, it became apparent to those whose sense of locality was an instinct that we were drifting aimlessly, after the usual device of the lost, in a series of circles, and our bewilderment was at its height when up rode a staff officer, galloping furiously, while flecks of foam upon his new uniform, and moisture dripping even from his sabre, attested the anxious eagerness of his errand. With a few hurried words reinforced by appropriate objurgation, this officer pointed out the right way, which having indicated, he disappeared in a whirlwind of dust which seemed to emit sparks as the soldiers said- of profanity.

Now came a struggle. We were told to hasten for our lives, take any step we liked, carry our arms any way we chose, and proceed to Staunton across lots, as it were, since there were those upon our track who might make delay dangerous. The heat was terrible. It was the first time in my recollection when battle had brought no rain to temper the fever wrought by the elemental disturbances. The leaves of the forest drooped languidly in the breathless air. The little birds sat with open mouths, panting from exhaustion, and wholly undisturbed by the clatter of hurrying hosts. The few wild four-footed creatures that we passed were so oppressed by the heat as to make no attempt to escape, and indeed some of our men actually caught a beautiful little baby fawn, which, overcome by noon, had fallen asleep under an azalea bush. Emerging into the clearings, we noticed the same evidences of overpowering caloric: the cows would stand knee-deep in some stagnant pool and let the flies do their worst; horses and mules fared scarcely better, and were less patient under the affliction. Of course the suffering on the part of our warmly clad and heavily armed men was extreme, and every few minutes some poor fellow would

fall forward on his face, sunstruck. The medical officers and their attendants were kept busy pouring water upon the prostrate forms of the fallen, - pouring it from a height as great as was attainable, sometimes standing up on their saddles for this purpose. Such, at the time whereof I write, was the approved method of treating coup de soleil.

Fortunately, Staunton was not very far away, and having eluded our crafty enemies by what was called "leg strategy," we soon had the happiness of marching into the captured town, where already "the marshal held the market-place." General Crook was there with fifteen loyal Virginia regiments, while, riding about in proud possession of roadway and sidewalk, could be seen the cavalry of Averill, with clanking sabres, jingling spurs, and patriotic sentiments.

Some sixty or more of our own men, who had fallen by the way from sunstroke, were now removed to a temporary hospital which had been improvised in the principal church of the town. Here already a goodly number of those who had been wounded in the battle of the day before were ensconced on some extemporized couches, in tranquil enjoyment of the light breeze that floated in through the pointed ecclesiastical windows.

The colors were about equally divided. The rebel wounded, cared for by our medical officers, were mingled indiscriminately with our own men; the various party-colored uniforms of gray and butternut-brown making, with the blue and the red and yellow facings of our cavalry and artillery uniforms, a curiously variegated tartan as viewed from the organ-loft above by a Scotch surgeon whose work it was to oversee the preparing of supplies.

The communion between victor and vanquished was friendly in the extreme, as was usually the case among the actual participants on the field; the hating being done mostly by politicians and other non-combatants who had more time for the indulgence of profitless rage and insidious distinctions.

The matter of supplies being arranged, it was not long before the hungry rebels were regaled with unwonted coffee and almost unassuageable hard - tack, luxuries whereof they had long forgotten the taste. Sisters of Mercy were to be seen, moving with noiseless tread, administering cooling drink, sponging the faces of the fever

stricken, and covering up the features of those who, after life's fitful fever, were sleeping well. A goodly number of Confederate officers in full uniform were chatting freely and comparing experiences with officers of our own army, not a few of whom discovered in the opponents of the day before classmates of auld lang syne at West Point, or comrades of Mexico or the plains; our army, in ante-war days, having been so small that all officers were known to one another. Then there would appear at the church door, from time to time, deputations of ladies from the town or vicinity to inquire for such of their kin as were being cared for under that hospitable roof: the calm, sad face of the Southern mother, realizing at last the bitterness of civil war, and now intent on such amelioration as might reach her son within those walls; the indignant Southern belle, whose unreasoning scorn we deplored, but could not help admiring. Occasionally there would appear negroes bringing fruit, milk, or wine, with the touching loyalty of old trusted house servants. One or two clergymen there were, and a Catholic priest, who added to sacerdotal functions the gentle mission of bringing letters, messages, etc. Beside these gentlemen and a stray hospital official, males there were none in the town, as every hand that could grasp a musket had long before been impressed for the cause.

The reaction which follows the excitement of a great battle usually finds expression in the writing of a multitude of letters, and now, throughout this large, cool churchhospital, could be seen men, in every attitude betokening weariness or languor, engaged in writing home. These letters might never reach their destination, for we were far within the enemy's lines, but it was a relief to the surcharged masculine heart to write, and at least try to convey the news that the writer was still in the land of the living, even though sorely hurt.

Gradually, as the day wore down, the fragrance of many flowers began to fill the church; for the Virginia ladies were not content with sending meat and wine to such of their friends as lay suffering there, but supplemented those gifts with large offerings of flowers, of royal hue and almost tropical luxuriance, such as the generous Southern climate loves to foster. They were sent to the rebels, but were equally enjoyed by all

present, because community of goods was one of the necessary conditions of the place. The perfume of roses could not help dividing itself among friend and foe, even had our gallant adversaries desired otherwise, which I am sure they did not. Before the red Virginia sun had set on that hot June day, almost every water-pitcher was filled with June roses, every table was covered with them, while yet more flowers were sprinkled profusely on pillow and counterpane; and indeed it needed the piled accoutrements, the stacked muskets, with other paraphernalia of a military hospital, to enable the beholder to realize the fact of war, although the victims of the struggle, to the number of many hundreds, were there, breathing the flower-scented air, and watching the setting sun through the open windows of the church.

Suddenly there was a sound from the large organ of the church. Some unknown experimenter was trying his hand at the bellows, -a 'prentice hand it seemed, from the bustling and creaking that he made,— and I was a little surprised when I discovered that the "artist," as the boys dubbed him, was a Confederate officer in full cavalry uniform, pumping till he grew red in the face, while, seated at the keyboard, was the Scotch surgeon whose roving eyes had made tartan of the variegated hues in the motley array below. Now he was intent on what Tyndall, quoting from Helmholtz, calls "sound-tint." First came experimental chords, with a few tentative stops, to gauge the mettle and volume of the sonorous monster, which proved to be one of the best organs in the South, one of those sweet-toned, old-fashioned, wooden-piped instruments like that whose melody has for half a century gone to the hearts of Sabbath worshipers in St. Paul's, New York. Soon the scheme expanded; chords modulated into fragments of chant, of symphony, and finally settled down into a military march, to the manifest delight of the listening men below. One by one, all the stops which represented the different instruments of a full military band were brought into requisition, until the walls of the building began to vibrate with these deep toned volumes of sound, and the faintest of the wounded strove to beat time to the swaying rhythm. It is needless to say that the music thus evoked was all intended for

Federal inspiration. Gradually the music from the vast organ grew more patriotic, more significantly suggestive. At last, when the great crash of the first few bars of the Star Spangled Banner shook the church, the meaning of the musician had become so clear that, as with one voice, Federal and Confederate, officer and soldier, wounded and dying, joined in the chorus, and sang, so far as I could judge, every man of them, to the end. Then each looked at the other, mute with the surprise of men whose hearts have been taken by storm.

The bitterness and cruelty, the ferocity of civil strife as compared with that which is international, are obvious enough, but in the former there is some compensation in the greater facilities afforded for the restoration of peace after the cessation of active hostilities. A common language; in the main a common faith, political and religious; and above all, such association of ideas as must exist among combatants who have been comrades in previous wars, would seem to conduce to the reëstablishment of good feeling when the casus belli shall have been removed.

The Star Spangled Banner is not a patriotic anthem of enthralling interest. The music is from an old English glee; and as to the words, the American does not live who can remember all of them. But on this occasion the song represented so much that was common to us all that when the defeated rebels found themselves singing it, they almost wondered that they ever could have rebelled. There were at this time, upon the political and military horizon, many gleams of the coming arch of peace, many evidences that the South was tired of the war, and that the North never loved it; I think it may safely be assumed that one of the harbingers of the peace so soon to follow might have been detected in the sound of the organ at Staunton, and in the voices caught singing in unison with it.

Dona Ferentes.

and

We are told by Emerson that gifts should be representative of the giver. The florist should send his flowers, the gardener his fruits, the poet his poem, and the young girl her needlework, as, severally, the most befitting offerings. Each should bestow himself with his gift. From an economic point of view this system is an admirable one. Surely, a birthday gift

of the sort thus indicated might suitably typify the "unbought grace of life." But suppose the estimable qualities which the would-be giver possesses prove not transferable? Is there any reason why a poet, who dearly loves a friend with no taste for verse, should refrain from sending that friend something the latter wants, rather than a poem which he does not want? Is there any reason why the dainty maiden, whose needlework is askew and stammers, as it were, should insist upon doing badly, for love's sake, that which another can do flawlessly, and which she can procure for a little money? Is there any reason why, because a man is a painter, he must needs send a picture to a blind friend, when something more available, though less representative of the giver, is at his command ?

The essayist whose injunction furnishes my theme has so well covered whatever ground he has touched that to allude to topics consecrated by his pen savors of hardihood. Yet his insistent discrimination on this head seems to me of very doubtful utility. Gifts, one might say, should be representative not so much of the giver as of the receiver, who is to use them to the bon vivant, a bottle of old Madeira; to the poet, a ream of such stationery as his Muse doth most affect; to the statesman, a handsomely engrossed copy of the Constitution; to the clergyman — but here humanity gives pause, for is not the largest room in the parsonage crammed with Bibles presented by blind good will? As in mixed company we adapt our conversation to the capacity, even to the professional comprehension, of those we meet, so should a like appreciation of the "fitness of things" accompany our acts of bestowal. Most serviceable, perhaps, are those gifts which cover a multitude of feelings and emotional occasions, which, by their very uselessness, or rather their purely ornamental efficacy, seem to sum up what is most needful in the giving of gifts,— some proof of the love of the giver, some evidence that the friend is remembered, some desire to afford pleasure, and through that pleasure to be remembered by the recipient. Such universal solvent of the question, What to give? has been reached by the world at large, which, waiving Mr. Emerson's doctrine of individualism in giving, merely sends flowers!