The song of the wren interested me much, because it was not in the least like that of our house wren, but, on the contrary, like that of our winter wren.

The theme is the same as the winter wren's, but the song did not seem to me to be as brilliantly musical as that of the tiny singer of the North Woods.

The sedge warbler sang in the thick reeds a mocking ventriloquial lay, which reminded me at times of the less pronounced parts of our yellow-breasted chat's song.

The cuckoo's cry was singularly attractive and musical, far more so than the rolling, many times repeated, note of our rain-crow.
We did not reach the inn at Brockenhurst until about nine o'clock, just at nightfall, and a few minutes before that we heard a nightjar.

It did not sound in the least like either our whip-poor-will or our night-hawk, uttering a long-continued call of one or two syllables, repeated over and over.