was unable to tell him from his mates, but the next year more than a week before 

 any other grackles were to be seen, a single male appeared at the park and at 

 once sought out the ducks' corn-pit. The same thing happened the three suc- 

 ceeding springs, and there never has been a doubt in my mind that it was the same 

 bird whom remembrance of the fat feeding-grounds had tempted to a northern 

 flight long before others of his kind. 



An inquiry of one of the officials on the day of my first Chicago acquaintance 

 with the grackle brought the information that the blackbirds were not in the habit 

 of visiting the park. If this were true, that year marked the first appearance 

 of the grackles in Lincoln Park, but I have long since ceased to place any confi- 

 dence in the powers of observation of the ordinary park guardian. One morning 

 when I had seen and identified within the limits of the pleasure ground thirty- 

 eight varieties of native wild birds, I was informed by a policeman, who said 

 he had seen five years of service in the same place, that in all that time there had 

 been nothing wearing feathers in evidence except English sparrows. 



Before that first March day trip was ended we saw within the Lincoln Park 

 limits a few robins and bluebirds, and great numbers of juncoes and fox sparrows. 

 The white-breasted nuthatches performed their gymnastic feats on every third 

 tree trunk. One of the lessons for beginners in bird-study to learn from this 

 bleak outing — and there was one beginner who learned it well — is, that no matter 

 how forbidding weather conditions may be, there are always surprises in store 

 for him who seeks the birds in their haunts. 



The presence of ponds in all the larger parks of our cities makes these 

 breathing places of the people "especially attractive to the birds. To the ponds 

 the city dweller owes it largely that the variety as well as the number of the 

 feathered visitors is so great. During the fullness of the tide of migration the 

 bird visitors are not limited to the smaller land species. In the early morning 

 hours the wild ducks are to be found upon the waters, plovers and sand-pipers 

 run along the shores, herons perch upon tree branches in secluded places, and 

 bitterns rest in the sedge grasses. In Lincoln Park on the same day I saw the 

 ruby-throated humming bird and the great bald eagle. The eagle was not one of 

 the forlornly feathered and unhappy looking prisoners in the big gilded cage, but 

 a great soaring bird whose birthright was freedom. Between these size extremes 

 of the feathered kingdom there can be found few birds that do not on some April 

 or September day find their way into Lincoln Park. 



In this day when the bullying English sparrow is abroad in the land, it 

 hardly seems possible that it can be the same native bird individuals that drop 

 into the parks year by year. If the same birds do come back, they must have 

 either short memories or spirits forgiving enough to rank them with the saints. 

 The sparrows never cease their persecutions. At times tragedies result, and 

 at other times the sparrows' encounters with his American cousins take on the 

 semblance of broad comedy. One spring morning, just at sunrise, I saw a bittern 



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