Coues, the inimitable word painter, says, Ten to one we would not see the little creatures at first, but presently from the very nearest juniper would come the well-known sounds. A curious song, if song it can be called — as much like a mouse complaining of the toothache as anything else I can liken it to — it is simply indescribable. The quaint performer would dart into the air, turn a somersault after a passing midge, get right side up and into the shrubbery again in an instant; or if we kept still with wide open eyes, we would see him perched on a spray, settled firmly on his legs, with his bill straight up, the throat swelling, and hear the curious musician.

Among the scrub oaks of central Long Island, I have watched them do just that, many a time.