240 BIRDS OF FIELD, FOREST AND PARK 



at my home two hundred miles south. Evidently 

 they had slipped by unseen at night, or in the 

 shelter of the woods. 



Straggling representatives of several familiar 

 varieties of the open country are here, but some 

 of them seem much changed and, in a way, out of 

 place so far in the deep forest. Our old friend, 

 the Robin, is about, but he has lost much of the 

 vivacity and cheerfulness which characterize 

 him in the open country. A pair is nesting in 

 a small fir within ten feet of my cabin, and in 

 the early morning I hear them running on the 

 roof just above my head. But they are strangely 

 silent and even when I approach the nest their 

 protests are feeble and half-hearted. Not once 

 have I heard their jolly rain song. Occasionally 

 they gather on the green before the door for a 

 brief frolic, but there is a lacking evidence of 

 that deep sense of contentment which one usu- 

 ally observes in this domestic bird during the 

 nesting season. 



A pair of Bluebirds has chosen a deserted 

 Woodpecker's hole not far away and they, too, 

 seem to be depressed by the gloom of the wil- 

 derness. Only rarely do I hear a note from this 

 usually joyous singer, the plaintive ''jar-a-way^ 

 jar-a-way^'' that is oftener heard in the autumn. 

 A solitary pair of Song Sparrows is nesting in 

 the clearing, but I have not been able to exactly 

 locate their home. Very rarely do I hear their 

 song, and then it is poorly executed, spiritless, 

 and cut short several notes. They seem to 

 have lost the sublime courage and light-hearted- 

 ness which we are accustomed to associate with 



