D’Orbigny in the Ornithology of Ramon de la Sagra’s work on Cuba, has described and figured this species, which in its appearance and manners very much resembles the King-bird of the United States, as it does also the preceding species. It is, however, a permanent inhabitant of Jamaica. In Westmoreland and St. Elizabeth’s, the name Petchary is applied indifferently to this and the grey species, as the equivalent term Pitirre, in Cuba seems to indicate any species of Tyrannus. Vieillot has described a closely allied bird, if not identical with ours, by the name of Tyr. Pipiri. But in the neighbourhood of Spanish Town, this species is distinguished from the grey, to which the name Petchary is there confined, by the term Loggerhead, which, with us to leeward, is applied to the rufous species, T. Crinitus. It is well to be aware of this confusion of local names, or we may be liable to predicate of one species, what is true only of another.

It is one of the commonest birds of Jamaica, both in the lowlands and the hilly districts, nor is it rare even at the elevation of the Bluefields Peaks. It seems to delight in the fruit and timber-trees, which are thickly planted in the pens, and around the homesteads of the southern coast, and everywhere, in fact, where insects are numerous. The larger kinds of insects form the prey of this species as of the former. I have seen one pursue with several doublings a large Cetonia, which, however, having escaped, the bird instantly snapped up a Cicada of still greater bulk, and began to beat it to kill it, while the poor insect sung shrilly as it was being devoured. It frequently resorts to a tree that overhangs still water, for the purpose of hawking after the dragon-flies that skim over the surface. The size of these insects, and their projecting wings, would seem to make the swallowing of them a matter of some difficulty; for I have noticed that the bird jerks the insect round by little and little, without letting it go, till the head points inward, when it is swallowed more readily. Mr. Hill has noticed a very interesting trait in this bird, so frequently as to be properly called a habit. It will play with a large beetle as a cat with a mouse, no doubt after its appetite has been sated. Sitting on a twig, and holding the beetle in its beak, it suddenly permits it to drop, then plunging downward, it gets beneath the insect before it has had time to reach the ground, and turning upward catches it as it falls. It sometimes continues this sport a quarter of an hour.

In the winter season, the seeds of the Tropic-birch (Bursera) appear to constitute a large portion of the food of our Tyrannidæ. One day in January, I observed two Petcharies on a birch-tree, fluttering in an unusual manner, and stood to watch their proceedings. I found they were feeding on the ripe berries, which they plucked off in a singular manner. Each bird sitting on a twig, seized a berry in his beak, then throwing back his head till he was in a perpendicular position, tugged till the stalk gave way, his wings being expanded, and vibrated all the while to prevent him from falling. Yet, even at this season, they contrive to fill their craws with insects; for one which I dissected the next day, had its stomach filled with hymenoptera and coleoptera, among which were the fragments of a most brilliant little Buprestis, the possession of which I envied it. I observed that the stomach was protuberant below the sternum, as in the cuckoos. At this early season, the time of incubation was near; for the ovary of this specimen contained an egg as large as a small marble; and my lad who shot it, told me that this one and its mate were toying and pursuing each other around a tall manchioneel-tree, on one of whose upper limbs he discovered a nest nearly finished.

The nest consists of a loose basket of dry stems of yam, and tendrils of passion-flower, lined with a slight cup of horse-hair and fibres from palmetto-leaves. Four or five eggs are laid, of a drab hue or reddish-white, with blotches of reddish-brown and bluish irregularly intermixed, but chiefly arranged in the form of a crown around the larger end.

In the month of September they become, in common with their grey congeners, a mere mass of fat, and are at this time in much request for the table. They are supposed to acquire this fatness by feeding on the honey-bees, which then resort in great numbers to the magnificent bloom-spike of the cabbage-palm. Hither the Petchary also resorts, and sitting on a frond captures the industrious insects as they approach. At this time the large and branching spike of blossom, projecting and then curving gracefully downwards, and looking as if exquisitely moulded in white wax, is a very beautiful object; and the pollen from the flowers is diffused so abundantly, that the ground beneath the tree, appears exactly as if it had been visited by a snow-shower.

This appears to be the species alluded to by Robinson in the following note. “They [the Tyrants, Baristi, as he calls them,] are all very bold birds, especially the largest species called the Loggerhead, who beats all kinds of birds indiscriminately; he is also the harbinger of the morning, constantly giving notice of the approach of day by his cry. When he is beating a Carrion Crow or other birds, he snaps his bill very frequently; he is a very active, bold bird, and feeds upon insects and lizards. I have seen him give chase to a lizard round the trunk of a small tree, flying in circles with surprising activity. In beating any large bird, both cock and hen (if both are in the way,) join in the quarrel or scuffle.”[50] In these assaults, the intrepid Petchary does not always come off scathless. “And here,” says Robinson in speaking of the Red-tailed Buzzard, “I cannot help recollecting an unhappy though deserved ill-fate, which sometimes befalls the large Loggerhead. Everybody is acquainted with the pugnacious nature of this little bird; for he attacks and buffets every large bird that happens to fall in his way, snapping his beak and pursuing him with great violence; and among others this great Hawk is often disturbed and beaten by him.

“At Chestervale, in the cultivated ground, it is common for this Hawk to perch upon the top of some dry tree. This situation he chooses that he may the better view the ground beneath, and observe if a rat or other animal should make its appearance. While he sits here upon the watch, ’tis ten to one but he is attacked by the Loggerhead, whom he suffers to buffet and beat him with great patience, without offering to stir once from his place; till, his assailant being quite tired and spent with the violence of his exercise, inadvertently sits down on some twig not far distant from his passive, and, as he may think, inoffensive enemy. That enemy, however, now keeps his eye fixed on him, and no sooner does he begin to preen his feathers, or look carelessly about him, than down pounces the Hawk suddenly upon him, seizes the unwary bird in his talons, and devours him.”[51]

The courage of the Tyrants in defence of their nests, is well known; but it seems at times to become almost a mania. The late proprietor of Mount Airy, in his daily walks about the estate, was attacked with such virulence by a Petchary that was nesting, the bird actually pecking his head, that he was compelled to take out a stick in defence, with which he at length struck down the too valiant bird. Dogs seem especially obnoxious to it, and this not only during incubation; at any time a passing dog is likely to be assaulted by this fierce bird, and if he be so unfortunate as to have any sore on his body, that is sure to be the point of attack. One of my youths, a veracious lad, narrated to me the following circumstance, to which he was witness. A large dog was following his mistress through Mount Edgecumbe Pen, when a Petchary flew virulently at him: on the shoulder of the dog was a large running sore; to this the bird directed his attention: suspending himself over the wound, he clutched with his extended feet as if he wished to seize it thus, snapping angrily with his beak; then suddenly he pecked the wound, while the dog howled in agony. The bird, however, repeated its assaults exactly in the same manner, until the blood ran down the shoulder from the wound; the dog all the while seemingly cowed and afraid to run, but howling most piteously, and turning round to snap at the bird. The woman was at some distance ahead, and took no notice; and the war continued until my informant left. The Petchary continued, in this case, on the wing; but frequently he alights on the dog to peck him.

Both this and the Grey Petchary, when excited, open and shut the coronal feathers alternately. When opened, the appearance is as if a deep furrow had been ploughed through the plumage of the head, the sides of which are vividly coloured. Occasionally this furrow is opened in death, and remains so: one or two birds being brought me in this condition, when my acquaintance with the species was slight, I suspected that some of the feathers had been plucked out, in order to enhance the value of the specimens by displaying the gayer colour. A male of the present species, which I wounded one day in April, on my taking it up, began to scream passionately, and to open and shut the crown, biting ferociously; another from the same tree, probably his mate, attracted by his cries, pursued me, endeavouring to peck me: and when repelled, continued to gaze, stretching its neck anxiously, whenever the screams were repeated.

In the quotation from Robinson’s MSS., page 180, the early habits of this bird were noticed. On the same subject, Mr. Hill writes me, “I know no bird-voice, not excepting ‘the cock’s shrill clarion,’ that is earlier heard than the pi-pi-pihou of the Loggerhead Tyrant. In my neighbourhood several of the yards are planted with cocoa-nut trees. On a very lofty cocoa palm to the north of me, a pair of Grey Petcharies annually nestle in the month of April. On half a dozen less elevated ones to the west of me, several Loggerheads take up their locations as early as January, and build their nests there. I say January, as that is their time for nestling, but I see them there ordinarily by Christmas, and I hear the clang and clatter of their voices before; but it is not till the turn of the year, that they unfailingly chant every morning their peculiar reveillé; singing pi-pi-pihou, pi-pi—, pipi-pi-pihou, for an hour from the firing of the Port Royal gun, a little before five, till the sun is well up:—they then descend to some of the lower vegetation round about, and alter their chant from the more musical pipi-pihou, to a sort of scream of pi-i-i-i-i-hou, for the space of about twenty minutes more; when they cease for the day. It was this remarkable obtrusion of their chant upon the ear, before day-break, in the shortest of our days, that led me to the conclusion that they were the Tyrannus matutinus of Vieillot. Buffon, on remarking that no bird is earlier than the Black-headed Pipiri, as he designates it, for he is assured that it is heard as soon as the day begins to dawn, gives two or three striking notes from St. Domingo correspondents, in which this fact is particularly recorded. A Mr. Deshayes in his communication writes, that “the Pipiri seen in the forest, and in ruinate lands, and in cultivated spots, thrives everywhere; but more especially the Yellow-crested Pipiri, which is the more multiplied species; that one delights in places that are inhabited. In winter they draw near to houses, and as the temperature of this season in these climates, has much the character of spring-time in France, it would seem that the prevailing coolness and freshness fills them with life and gaiety. Indeed never are they seen so full of clatter, and so cheerful as in the months of November and December; they then tease each other, and dash along somersetting (voltigent) one after the other, as a sort of prelude to love-making.’” My friend again writes me on the 30th of April:—“As I lay fever-wake on the morning of the 27th, I heard again the Loggerhead Tyrant singing most musically his day-dawn salutation of pipi-pihou. My sister, who listened to the early songster too, thinks that op, pp, p, q, is his morning lesson; and it is, perhaps, the closest resemblance to his chant. He is a scholar after the fashion of modern Infant schools. His alphabet and multiplication-table are a song. He repeated his lesson the following morning, but I have slept so soundly since, that I cannot say whether he has continued to wake to his learning at the firing of the Port Royal gun.”

RED PETCHARY.[52]
Loggerhead.—Great Crested Flycatcher.—Wils.

Though found in Jamaica through the winter, the Loggerhead is not then very common; but in March many begin to frequent the groves, and trees of the pastures; and may be observed pursuing each other in devious flights, uttering a rattling cry, harsh, though not loud. As they sit in a tree, they emit at intervals a loud pirr, in a plaintive tone, ruffling the plumage, and shivering the wings at the same time. Its general habits are those of its congeners, but it lacks their pugnacity. Very large insects form its ordinary prey: one I shot in the very act of taking a large cicada, while sitting on a twig, the insect was still in its throat when killed. In November I have found the stomach filled with the large red-berries of the Tropic birch.

Sam tells me he has found the nest of this bird, containing four young, at the very bottom of a hollow stump, in a mountain district.

BLACK SHRIKE.[53]
Judy.—Mountain Dick.

This species, hitherto undescribed, is named and figured by Mr. G. R. Gray, in his “Genera of Birds,” from specimens procured by myself. It is not uncommon in the mountain districts of Jamaica, where, from the remarkable diversity in the appearance of the male and female, they are distinguished by separate local names. The black male is known by the feminine appellation of Judy, while the chestnut-headed female receives the masculine soubriquet of Mountain Dick. Mr. Gray, from his acquaintance with the genus, I presume, was able to identify the sexes by an examination of dried skins, while I was long in coming to the same conclusion, from observation of the living birds. Yet I early suspected it; their form and size were the same; their manners were the same; their singular call was the same; they were almost always found either actually in company, or else the one calling, and the other answering, at a short distance from each other. It remained, however, to prove the fact; and I accordingly dissected every specimen that fell in my way, for many months; the result of which was that every “Judy,” was a male; and that almost every “Mountain Dick” was a female; to this latter there were but two exceptions; two in the umber plumage were indubitably males, but in one of them, shot in February, the dark brown hue of the head was almost obliterated, and replaced by black, the tips and edges only of the feathers being brown. Probably, the male of the first year bears the colours of the female, a supposition afterwards confirmed.

Though more frequently seen at a considerable elevation from the sea, we occasionally meet with these birds in the lowlands; they are, however, rather recluse, affecting woods and lonely places. Here as they hop from one twig to another, or sit hid in the foliage of a thick tree, they utter a rapid, and not unmusical succession of notes, as if attempting to compress them all into one. Some idea may be formed of it, by playing with one hand the following notes on a pianoforte.

[Music]

The notes are occasionally poured forth in the air as the bird flits from tree to tree. But very commonly it is heard, without any variation, from the male and female alternately, seated on two trees, perhaps on the opposite sides of a road; thus:—The Mountain Dick calls, and the Judy immediately answers; then a little pause;—another call from the Mountain Dick, and an instant answer from Judy;—until, after a few successions, the Judy gallantly yields the point, and flies over to the other tree to join his friend. In February, I have heard it repeating a note somewhat like che-w.

This species is bold and fierce in self-defence, the female no less than the male. On several occasions, when I have shot, and but slightly wounded, one, it would make vigorous efforts to escape by running; but on being taken in the hand and held by the legs, it would elevate the crown feathers, turn the head up and bite fiercely at my fingers, seizing and pinching the flesh with all its force; striving at the same time to clutch with its claws, and screaming vociferously. I have never seen it pursue other birds in the aggressive manner of the true Tyrants; nor, as far as I am aware, does it capture insects in the air, notwithstanding that the rictus is defended by stiff bristles. Stationary insects are usually the contents of the stomach, particularly large bugs, (Pentatoma) and caterpillars, and sometimes the eggs of insects. In the winter the berries of the Bursera or Tropic Birch, constitute a large portion of its food.

In April the Judy begins to arrange the domestic economy of the season; and if the cradle of his young is not so elaborate a structure as some others, it makes up in quantity what it lacks in quality. In the latter part of this month, my negro lads, being on a shooting excursion, observed on Bluefields Mountain, a domed nest, made apparently of dried leaves, about as large as a child’s head, suspended from the under side of a pendent branch of a tall tree. They watched awhile to discover the owner, and presently saw the female of the present species enter, and re-emerge, while the male was hopping about the tree. A day or two after, I myself observed a similar nest, similarly situated, beneath one of the pendent branches of a tall cotton-tree, at Cave, on the road to Savanna-le-Mar. It appeared to be composed of loose trash, rather a ragged structure, but evidently domed, with the entrance near the bottom. Both the male and female were playing and calling around it, and the latter at length went in. On the 11th of May, passing that way again, I observed this nest to be considerably larger, not less than a foot in diameter, as well as I could judge from the great elevation; its outline, however, was still ragged. I estimated the height of the nest to be between seventy and eighty feet, though on the lowest branch of the tree, and that pendent. Yet this Ceiba had not attained the giant dimensions common to the species. A few days after this, Sam saw a third nest, formed and placed exactly as in the former cases, so that I concluded this to be the usual economy. A fourth example, however, showed me, that the lofty elevation is not indispensable, as also that I had not yet seen the largest specimens of the nests. On a branch of a small cedar (Cedrela) that overhangs the high-road at Cave, I had noticed early in June what appeared to be a heap of straw, tossed up by a fork and lodged there, which the action of the weather had in some degree smoothed at the top, the ends trailing downwards. One day, however, as I was looking up at it, I saw the brown female of this species emerge from the bottom, and presently return, entering at a narrow hole beneath. As it was not more than twelve or fifteen feet from the ground, I immediately sent my lads to climb the tree, and cut the branch, which they accordingly brought me, with the huge nest attached. The boys reported that it was empty, and that it had four entrances; but on examination, I found that every one of these was merely a hollow in the immense walls, produced by the receding of one part of the loose materials from another. While they held it up in the position it had occupied on the tree, I searched beneath for the true entrance; which, when I had found it, I had much difficulty to find again, so concealed was it by the long draggling ends of the mass. On inserting my finger, however, I felt the soft and warm plumage of young birds, and pulled out three, almost fully fledged. All three had the plumage of the female, but one was manifestly darker than the others: if this was, as I presume, a cock, the conclusion above, that the young male bears the livery of the female, is confirmed. As I did not want the young, I placed them on a lower limb of a large tree in the yard; and as, on the next day, I saw two of them about the tree lively and active, and as one flew a distance of, perhaps, thirty feet, I trust that they did well, and survived their premature exposure to the world. To return to the nest, however: I found it a loose, oblong mass, flattened on two sides, measuring in height about two and a half feet, (though the ends hung down to the length of four feet,) in width more than two feet, and in thickness about one foot. It was composed almost entirely of the stems and tendrils of passion flowers, mixed, however, and that all through the structure, with bright-yellow, silky spiders’ nests, and the downy filaments of some cottony herbs. The cavity was not larger than a man’s two fists, and was not, in any measure, lined: it descended within the entrance, though the latter faced the ground.

WHITE-EYED FLYCATCHER.[54]
Sewy-sewy.

This modest little bird is not uncommon throughout the year. It manifests little fear of approach, allowing one to come within a few feet, as it peeps about among the twigs of low trees and shrubs. It rather seems to have a good deal of curiosity, for it will peep at a person approaching, and if he move slowly and avoid anything to provoke alarm, will hop gradually down from twig to twig, stretching out its neck, until it is almost within touch. Three or four will sometimes chase each other among the branches, and from bush to bush, uttering at intervals a monotonous chirruping. Its notes are very varied; sometimes a loud chewurr, or sweet-will, uttered with deliberation and much mellowness of tone. I have heard it in March uttering with surprising loudness a single clear and shrill whistle, slightly modulated: after a while it changed this to a double note, to-whit, to-whit, equally loud and piercing. About the same season I have listened to che-che-che-churrrr; and in May, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, tŏ-too.

I have never found anything but seeds in the stomach of this bird; though I do not doubt that it eats insects also.

The White-eyed Flycatcher is one of those species that are only partially migratory; during the summer it spreads over the United States. It is found throughout the year in our sultry island, though with diminished numbers in the summer.

JOHN-TO-WHIT.[55]
Red-eyed Flycatcher. Wils.—Whip-Tom-Kelly. Sloane.

Much oftener heard than seen, though not unfamiliar to either sense, this sober-coloured bird is one of those whose notes have such a similarity to articulations as to procure them a common appellation. The Flycatchers, in general, are not very vociferous, but this is pertinacious in its tri-tonous call, repeating it with energy every two or three seconds. It does not ordinarily sit on a prominent twig, or dart out after insects, though I have seen one in eager, but unsuccessful pursuit of a butterfly (Terias), but it seems to love the centre of thick trees, where it sits announcing its presence, or flits from bough to bough as you approach; so that it is not easy to get a sight of it.

This bird does not winter with us, but leaves with the Grey Petchary, at the beginning of October. It returns early, and like the bird just named, evidently makes an eastward progress, arriving at the south-west end of the island first. On the 26th of March, on my return to Bluefields, after a visit to Spanish town, I heard its well-known voice, but my lad had noticed it a week before. From this time, every grove, I might almost say every tree, had its bird, uttering with incessant iteration and untiring energy, from its umbrageous concealment, Sweet-John!—John-to-whit!—sweet-John-to-whit!— John-t’whit!—sweet-John-to—whit!—I can scarcely understand how the call can be written “Whip-Tom-Kelly” as the accent, if I may so say, is most energetically on the last syllable. Nor have I ever heard this appellation given to it in Jamaica. After July we rarely hear John-to-whit,—but, to-whit—to-whoo; and sometimes a soft simple chirp, or sip, sip, whispered so gently as scarcely to be audible. This, however, I have reason to believe, is the note of the young, for I have heard young ones repeatedly utter it, when sitting on a twig, receiving from time to time, with gaping beak, and quivering wing, the food contributed by the dam.

The food of the John-to-whit is both animal and vegetable. In March I have found in its stomach the seeds of the Tropic Birch, and in April the berries of Sweet-wood, in an unripe state. In the same month, I observed one hunting insects by the borders of Bluefields rivulet in which I was bathing; and so intent was it upon its occupation, that it allowed me to approach within a foot of it before it flew. It sought insects successfully among the grass and low herbage, perching on the stalks of the weeds, and jumping out after stationary, as well as vagrant, prey. I observed it eat two spiders’ nests, which it masticated, as if peculiarly savoury. As it sat, it vomited a little white body, which I found to be the globose seed of the misseltoe berry.

Incubation takes place in June and July. The nest is rather a neat structure, though made of coarse materials. It is a deep cup, about as large as an ordinary tea-cup, narrowed at the mouth; composed of dried grass, intermixed with silk-cotton, and sparingly with lichen and spiders’ nests, and lined with thatch-threads. It is usually suspended between two twigs, or in the fork of one, the margin being over-woven, so as to embrace the twigs. This is very neatly performed. Specimens vary much in beauty: one before me is particularly neat and compact, being almost globular in form, except that about one-fourth of the globe is wanting, as it is a cup. Though the walls are not thick, they are very firm and close, the materials being well woven. These are fibres of grass-like plants, moss, a few dry leaves, flat papery spiders’ nests, with a little cotton or down for the over-binding of the edges. It is lined smoothly with fibres, I know not of what plant, as slender as human hair. Another nest, similarly formed, has the cavity almost filled with a mass of white cotton, which looks as if thrust in by man, but that those filaments of the mass that are in contact with the sides, are interwoven with the other materials. As it is picked cotton, it must be a bit stolen from some house or yard, not plucked by the bird from the capsule. The eggs, commonly three in number, are delicately white, with a few small red-brown spots, thinly scattered over the surface, sometimes very minute and few. Their form is a somewhat pointed oval, measuring ⁹⁄₁₀ inch, by rather less than ¹³⁄₂₀.

Fam.—AMPELIDÆ. (The Chatterers.)

CEDAR-BIRD.

For the history of this elegant bird, which has never fallen under my notice in Jamaica, I refer to the American ornithologists. My reason for noticing it here, is the following note of Mr. Hill’s.

“In severe winters on the continent, we have been visited by that American species of the Waxwing usually called the Cedar-bird. I have been informed that in the Christmas of 1836, several in a flock were seen about the cashaw-trees of Spanish town. Nothing is known of their habits with us, except that they were shy, and scudded about, a dozen or twenty together, and very prominently displayed the scarlet, wax-like ornaments resulting from the flattening of the shafts of the secondary feathers of the wings.”

SOLITAIRE.[56]

Wandering among the woods on the summit of the mountain ridge that rises behind Bluefields, I had often heard in the spring, proceeding from the deep forests, a single clear note, lengthened and mellow as the tone of a flute, sometimes alone, sometimes followed by another, about two tones lower. The notes were singularly sweet, and their sudden recurrence at rather long intervals, in the lone and sombre silence of that lofty elevation, imparted to them a romantic character, which made me very desirous to discover their author. As the summer came on, however, I ceased to hear them: but in the beginning of October, as I was wandering again in the same locality, I was again startled by the interesting sounds. As I proceeded on the very lonely road, through the humid woods, where the trees were loaded with orchideæ and wild-pines, and the dank stones hidden by ferns and mosses, the notes became more frequent and evidently nearer. It being useless for a white man, with shoes, to attempt to follow retiring birds among the matted woods, tangled and choked with climbers, and strewn with loose stones, I sent in Sam with a gun, with orders to follow the sound. He crept silently to a spot whence he heard it proceed, and saw two birds of this species, which neither he nor I had seen before, chasing each other among the boughs. He shot one of them. As he was coming out into the road, he imitated the sound by whistling, and was immediately answered by another bird, which presently came flying to the place where he was, and alighted on a tree at a little distance. He fired at this also, and it fell; but emitted the remarkable note at the moment of falling.

But it is at early day,—when the dew lies so heavily on the broad-leafed cocoes of the provision grounds, that from every leaf you might collect a gill of sparkling water; while the mosses and ground-ferns are moist as a saturated sponge; before the sun has peeped over the distant mountain-peaks, and before the light has struggled into the gloomy forest on either side;—it is at early day, that if we traverse some narrow rocky bridle-path that winds around the hill-sides, choked up with jointer and glass-eye berry, and overhung by towering Santa Marias, cabbage-palms, and tree-ferns, we become familiar with this interesting bird. The voices of many are then heard saluting the opening day, some near at hand, some scarce audible in the distance; and as all do not pipe in the same key, we sometimes hear beautiful and startling chords produced. Although there is a richness in the tones, which the human voice in whistling can by no means attain, yet the birds will frequently respond to an imitation of their call. Now and then we may obtain a sight of one, or a pair, as they seem generally in pairs, sitting, with a melancholy absorbed air, on some low tree a little way within the forest, manifesting little alarm or curiosity.

It was soon after I became acquainted with this bird that I received the following note from Mr. Hill: in reference to an intention which I then had of ascending that magnificent ridge called the Blue Mountains, whose summits are 8000 feet high.—“There are two living attractions in these mountains, a crested snake, and a sweetly mysterious singing bird called the Solitaire. This bird is a Thrush, and it is worth a journey to hear his wonderful song. I find among some detached notes of mine, the following memorandum respecting a similar bird in the smaller West Indian islands. ‘The precipitous sides of the Souffriere mountain in St. Vincent,’ says a writer describing the volcano which so disastrously broke out there in 1812, ‘were fringed with various evergreens, and aromatic shrubs, flowers, and many Alpine plants. On the north and south sides of the base of the cone were two pieces of water, one perfectly pure and tasteless, the other strongly impregnated with sulphur and alum. This lonely and beautiful spot was rendered more enchanting by the singularly melodious notes of a bird, an inhabitant of those upper solitudes, and altogether unknown to the other parts of the island; hence supposed to be invisible, though it certainly has been seen, and is a species of merle.’ I extract my notes on the Haytian bird: though I have seen Jamaica specimens, I never visited their mountain haunts. ‘As soon as the first indications of day-light are perceived, even while the mists hang over the forests, these minstrels are heard pouring forth their wild notes in a concert of many voices, sweet and lengthened like those of the harmonica or musical glasses. It is the sweetest, the most solemn, and most unearthly of all the woodland singing I have ever heard. The lofty locality, the cloud-capt heights, to which alone the eagle soars in other countries,—so different from ordinary singing-birds in gardens and cultivated fields,—combine with the solemnity of the music to excite something like devotional associations. The notes are uttered slowly and distinctly, with a strangely-measured exactness. Though it is seldom that the bird is seen, it can scarcely be said to be solitary, since it rarely sings alone, but in harmony or concert with some half-dozen others chanting in the same glen. Occasionally it strikes out into such an adventitious combination of notes, as to form a perfect tune. The time of enunciating a single note, is that of the semi-breve. The quaver is executed with the most perfect trill. It regards the major and minor cadences, and observes the harmony of counter-point, with all the preciseness of a perfect musician. Its melodies, from the length and distinctness of each note, are more hymns than songs. Though the concert of singers will keep to the same melody for an hour, each little coterie of birds chants a different song, and the traveller by no accident ever hears the same tune.’” In another letter he says, “Buffon notices the Solitaire under the title of the Organist. He thus speaks of it,—‘In St. Domingo the name of Organist has been given to this little bird, because, in ascending from grave to sharp, it sounds all the tones of the octave. It is not only very singular but very agreeable. Chevalier Fabre Deshayes writes, that, in the southern parts of St. Domingo in the high mountains, there is a very rare but very celebrated bird, called the Musician, whose song can be set down by notes. The Musician of M. Deshayes, it is to be presumed, is the same with our Organist.[57] In M. Page Dupretz’s History of Louisiana, there is a description of a small bird which they call the Bishop, and which we believe to be the same with our Organist. Its plumage being blue passing into violet, it has hence obtained the name of Bishop. It is so sweet-throated, so flexible in its tones, and so soft in its warblings, that those who once hear it become somewhat measured in their praises of the Nightingale. The notes of its song are lengthened out like those of a miserere. Whilst it sings it does not seem to draw breath; but it rests a double time before it recommences, and this alternation of singing and resting will be continued for two hours.’”

When I received these notes from my friend, and had identified my bird with his description, I had never heard more than two notes in succession. Curiosity impelled me to visit their lofty solitudes often through the winter, and at length on the 3rd of February, when they were abundant, I heard three successive notes of different tones, proceed from the same bird; exactly like so many notes of a psalm, played in slow time. And about three weeks later, I find this note in my journal; I have at length heard the song of the Solitaire; the long clear notes, followed by many others of varying length, and different tones, but separated by pauses rather too long to make a piece of music, causing the whole to seem disjointed; but with much sweetness. If I may conjecture, these true melodies are peculiar to the nuptial season, and indicate that the period of incubation is either begun or near; a time that generally exerts much influence on the singing of birds.

From that time they filled the woods with their solemn music, until April; when they began to become scarce, and by the middle of May not one was to be heard or seen. I concluded that they were migratory, and had now departed from the island for the summer; but on mentioning the fact to Mr. Hill, he informed me about the beginning of June, that a friend of his who had travelled through the Coona-coonas a day or two before, (a district of the Blue Mountains, in which Mr. Purdie heard them in his botanical tour, and at the same season,) had heard them singing by scores. And he adds, “My Haytian notes relate to two visits to the mountains they inhabit in that neighbour island; the first was in August, the second in June; and they were there in the lofty pine forests in hundreds.” The curious fact of the total disappearance of the species from the Bluefields Peaks during the summer, while yet present in the island, leads me to conjecture, that they may be subject to the same instinct as influences migratory birds, but leading them to seek a colder climate, not in a northern latitude, but in a loftier elevation. The Peaks of Bluefields, though the highest land in the western part of the island, are not more than 2600 feet high, and therefore far less elevated than the ridges of the eastern end.

As far as I know, the food of the Solitaire is exclusively berries: I have never found an insect in the stomachs of many that I have dissected. Mr. Hill found in one, the berries of a mountain Rubus, like the blackberry. In the Autumn, I have detected those of the misseltoe, but more commonly those called glass-eye berries, from their constituting the chief food of the Merle of that name. In February, the pimento groves, which cover the mountain-brow are loaded with fruit, not soft and sweet and black, as when ripe, but hard and green, and in the very state in which it is picked to be dried for commerce. The temptation of these berries draws the Solitaires from their seclusion, and we not only hear their clear notes trilled from every part of the groves, but see them familiarly eating, at the edges of the pastures, and by the roadsides. It is worthy of remark that their companions in retirement, the Glass-eyes, accompany them also in these feeding excursions, and partake of the feast. I found the stomachs of both species at this season, loaded with the green pimento.

The two specimens which first came into my hands, early in October, manifested signs of a seasonal change of plumage. One had the head prettily covered with pale rusty spots, each feather being thus tipped: several of the body feathers were similarly tipped. This was moulting, and I perceived that it was the old feathers which were tipped, the new ones being uniformly grey, whence I infer the spotted character to be that of the summer dress, perhaps extending to all the clothing feathers. The other specimen exhibited the same peculiarity, but in a less degree.