even later in the year, before these great congregations have been
broken up or have migrated. The effect produced by the small field
finch of the pampas was quite different. The linnet has a little
twittering song with breaks in it and small chirping sounds, and when
a great multitude of birds sing together the sound at a distance of
fifty or sixty yards is as of a high wind among the trees, but on a
nearer approach the mass of sound resolves itself into a tangle of
thousands of individual sounds, resembling that of a great concourse
of starlings at roosting time, but more musical in character. It is as
if hundreds of fairy minstrels were all playing on stringed and wind
instruments of various forms, every one intent on his own performance
without regard to the others.

The field finch does not twitter or chirp and has no break or sudden
change in his song, which is composed of a series of long-drawn notes,
the first somewhat throaty but growing clearer and brighter towards
the end, so that when thousands sing together it is as if they sang in
perfect unison, the effect on the hearing being like that on the sight
of flowing water or of rain when the multitudinous falling drops
appear as silvery-grey lines on the vision. It is an exceedingly
beautiful effect, and so far as I know unique among birds that have
the habit of singing in large companies.

I remember that we had a carpenter in those days, an Englishman named
John, a native of Cumberland, who used to make us laugh at his slow
heavy way when, after asking him some simple question, we had to wait
until he put down his tools and stared at us for about twenty seconds
before replying. One of my elder brothers had dubbed him the
"Cumberland boor." I remember one day on going to listen to the choir
of finches in the blossoming orchard, I was surprised to see John