eyes apparently closed, yet evidently sufficiently awake to enjoy his sun-bath to 

 the full. Every bripht day until the i)rcscnt found him at his post, but on cloudy 

 days he was absent, and also toward du'^k, but if lie was inside tlie box or in 

 more secluded quarters I do not know. 



Perhaps he goes to tell the news to a mate in other woods. If so, when thcv 

 set up housekeeping in which box will it be? In sun or shade? The wiiUcr 

 hollow will be a bake-house before the owlets, who take plenty of time to grow, 

 leave the nest. On the other hand, the box in the grove will be chilly in early 

 .April. The matter is quite a pretty problem, well worth watching, and brings 

 one to thoughts of the nesting season even before there is a single wing-flutter of 

 the spring migration. 



"Spring migration," you echo in amazement, "with a fresh fall of snow last 

 night, Redpolls at the feeding place this morning, and the ranks of winter resideiUs 

 and visitors still unbroken ?" 



Yes, in spite of many sig;ns, and the fact that even in southern New England 

 February and March are often the most rigorous of winter months, a sunny 

 February day holds up the promise of spring, at least to the mental vision, as 

 clear as if reflected by a Claude mirror. 



The thaw of last week freed the pool of ice, and, where the light snow that 

 fell for an hour last night edges the water, there is a greenish tinge to the over- 

 hanging grass. Yes, and the ripple on the water is made by a Song Sparrow 

 drinking. True, be may be a winter binl, but then again he may be a pioneer of 

 the first upward flight. I have seen Red-wings, Robins and Bluebirds that I 

 knew to be migrants all drinking in this pool, which is a natural spring the last 

 week in February. And what a bird-lure is this pool in and out of season ! b'or. 

 when an August drought dries many a merry stream, there is always water here: 

 and, even when ice freezes to an inch-depth every night, this little spring held, as 

 it seems to be, in the warm palm of a particular bit of Mother Earth, feels her 

 warm heartbeats and offers, by a sort of magic, the first refreshment and spring 

 cheer to the winged wanderers. 



It is here, in spite of its proximity to the house, that I am sure to see the 

 first and last of the Green Herons and Black-crowned Night-Herons; though of 

 the latter there is no "last," as usually we have a pair or two with us all winter, 

 going by day to feed in the tide pool of the salt marshes, and returning by night 

 to the thick shelter of the spruces, where they will have a nest or two later on. 



In the hit of meadow beyond the spring, any time from middle February to 

 middle Marcli, I shall see the first glistening flock of Purple Crackles, working 

 industriously among the grass roots, drinking, perhaps, if the day is mild and 

 windless, taking a fluttering, hasty bath and then mantling the big red oak in 

 iridescent hues, akin to the reflections in deep black water, while they preen and 

 call to one another, "Here we are at last, and, thank our lucky stars, these house 

 people haven't drained our pond or cut down our club-tree since we left, and they 

 fiai'e thoughtfully plowed up an old bit of meadow below in the Bluebirds Apple- 



414 



