Sad fate for singers so purely divine.
One of the gayest of the singers is the redwing blackbird. In the
spring, when his scarlet epaulets shine brightest, and his little
modest gray wife is sitting on the nest, built on rushes in a swamp,
he sits on a nearby oak and devotedly sings almost all day. His rich
simple strain is _baumpalee_, _baumpalee_, or _bobalee_ as interpreted
by some. In summer, after nesting cares are over, they assemble in
flocks of hundreds and thousands to feast on Indian corn when it is in
the milk. Scattering over a field, each selects an ear, strips the
husk down far enough to lay bare an inch or two of the end of it,
enjoys an exhilarating feast, and after all are full they rise
simultaneously with a quick birr of wings like an old-fashioned church
congregation fluttering to their feet when the minister after giving
out the hymn says, "Let the congregation arise and sing." Alighting on
nearby trees, they sing with a hearty vengeance, bursting out without
any puttering prelude in gloriously glad concert, hundreds or
thousands of exulting voices with sweet gurgling _baumpalees_ mingled
with chippy vibrant and exploding globules of musical notes, making a
most enthusiastic, indescribable joy-song, a combination unlike
anything to be heard elsewhere in the bird kingdom; something like
bagpipes, flutes, violins, pianos, and human-like voices all bursting
and bubbling at once.
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