They were moving like thought, and soon left the gulls far behind. I recog- 

 nized them as old squaws, wanderers from the far off Arctic. In the middle 

 of winter the old squaw is not an uncommon bird at the southern end of Lake 

 Michigan. When the lake is well filled with ice these northern ducks search 

 for the stretches of open water, and there they seek rest and food. A gunner 

 who took station at the end of the government pier in Chicago one winter's 

 day killed a hundred old squaws in a few hours' time. When the killing was 

 complete, he found out that the birds were unfit for food, and the bodies of 

 the beautiful creatures were thrown away. I left the lake and went into the 

 ravine. On the bank of the little brook at the bottom the air was warm and 

 still. The stream was ice-bound only in places. The locality was like one of 

 the constant succession of scenes that are found in a ramble in New England. 

 Sadly enough, however, June sees this ravine brook dried up, and the July sun 

 withers the flowers at its edge and the foliage on its banks. The ravine's 

 beauty largely will pass, while in New England the mountain-fed streams 

 will keep the summer blossoms bright and the leaves green. 



I started a junco from his feeding place on the brook's bank. He was all 

 alone. I think that was the only time in my field experience that I have 

 found a junco separated from his fellows. While the books put this little 

 snowbird down as a common winter resident in this latitude, I have found it 

 in the heart of winter only on three occasions, and then in limited numbers. 

 A few yards beyond the junco's foraging place I found the empty tenement 

 of a red-eyed vireo. The vireo had used a piece of newspaper as a part of his 

 building material. The print was still clear, and I found the date line of a 

 dispatch at the heading of a short article. The date was July 3, of the year 

 before. This was proof beyond question that the vireo had begun house- 

 keeping rather later in the season than is usual with his tribe. Judging from 

 other empty nests that I found close at hand the vireo had pleasant neighbors, 

 the redstarts and the yellow war1)lers. The birds must have found this ravine 

 an ideal summer resort, plenty of shade, good water, lake breezes, and a larder 

 well supplied with all the insect delicacies of the season. 



The pathway of the stream was lined in places with snow which the thaw 

 had spared. I found that I was not the first traveler of the morning. A rab- 

 bit had preceded me, and apparently he had gone a long way from home, for 

 the marks of his footsteps led on until the ravine was at an end. A jay re- 

 sented my intrusion into the ravine. The jay finds his perfect setting in a 

 winter day. His coloring makes the bird seem like a bit broken from the blue 

 sky and from the edge of a cold gray cloud, ^^^hen I finally reached the plain 

 above the ravine, I found that a blizzard was raging. In the sheltered depths 

 I had not known of the change in the weather. Within an hour the worst 

 storm of the year was sweeping over the lake. It was on that day, which had 

 opened with a spring-like mildness, that the steamship Chicora. plying Lake 

 Michigan, went down to destruction. The air was filled with particles of 



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