118 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



shoulders there was a most exquisite metallic 

 lustre of bronze, tempering to shifting shades of 

 the same colour only lighter on its breast. Its 

 back was a slate grey with faint bronze lights, 

 while here and there over its wings there was a 

 tiny, dark feather. The bird was very alert, its 

 head high-held, its big, liquid eyes searching the 

 landscape in all directions. As it struck the wire 

 it gave a queer cry — nothing like the notes of our 

 doves or pigeons, but in a high key and interroga- 

 tive tone it called as nearly as I can express it 

 in words: "See, see, see." Then it searched the 

 landscape all around it, called again not so loudly, 

 listened intently, and again took up its course 

 straight west. There was nothing this bird could 

 have been except one of the very last of our wild 

 pigeons. I had heard it described all of my life, 

 had seen it in our woods in my childhood, and 

 before this experience I had carefully studied the 

 pair in confinement in the Cincinnati zoological 

 gardens; so I know I was not mistaken in my 

 identification. 



Another extremely rare bird in my locality 

 which I have seen only once in a flock in the woods 

 of the Cabin, north, early in November, is the 

 white snow bunting of the North, lightly touched 

 with rusty red brown over its back and wings. 

 It may be common with other field workers, but 

 I have seen it in only this one instance. 



To birds noticed in locations which were un- 



