28o 



Bird- Lore 



tree feeding station, and this means the coming of winter for the birds in my 

 garden. 



This morning, in the luminous dusk of frosty dawn, I chanced to look out 

 over the glittering lowland pastures, when I saw a small flock of Fox Sparrows 

 drop from flight that brought them over the house, and settle in the low bushes 

 above the flower corner. At nine o'clock, apparently rested and vigorous, 

 they were feeding about a great brush-heap down in Bluebird Farm, where all 

 the dry litter of seeded coreopsis, cornflowers, zinnias and other composites, 

 pea- vines and brush, is collected for burning. This conflagration had long been 



A FAVORITE FEEDING-PLACE 



one of the features of autumn nights until I discovered in it another disad- 

 vantage of too-great garden neatness — that is, if one wishes birds, — for the 

 great heap of light, dry brush, against which we lay a few spruce boughs, 

 makes not only an ideal winter shelter for birds, great and small, but yields a 

 food supply to many of the shy species that look askance at the formal feeding- 

 station. Already we have seen a Ruffed Grouse run to cover there; from it 

 a pair of Hungarian Partridges have flown several times, and a small covey 

 ■of Quail include it in their list of hiding-places; and yet this pile has only been 

 a month in growing. Is this not a proof of the importance of food and shelter? 

 Beyond lie acres of thrifty pasture-land, without bush or break, and several 

 strips of woodland, posted and protected, yet stripped of underbrush and 



