When the Birds Come North 73 



lose, else her birdlings will be too small to take the trip when the brief 

 summer has passed. 



There is, however, one really joyous time in the north. It is the mating 

 season. The tundra is then in a social whirl. The air seems fairly alive with 

 darting singing birds. Then, too, the birds are dressed in their gayest plumage. 

 Those who know them in the south would scarcely recognize them now. 



If you walk out on the tundra toward the last of May you may imbibe some 

 of this joy of living. Here, near you, is your old friend the Robin, in his re- 

 juvenated dress of red and black and gray. Not far from him, in plainer attire, 

 is his mate. He approaches her with a short, quick run and then, tilting his 

 head, carols her a sweet if monotonous little song, Hurree, hurree, hurree, hurree, 

 hurree. After a second she gives her answer. It is merely a little run, the 

 length of his and from him. He repeats his maneuver and she hers. 



Your attention is called here to a series of low musical whistles. All about 

 you are little gray birds soaring and swooping. They are the Pectoral Sand- 

 pipers and the whistle is a mating season accomplishment of the male. It is 

 the most characteristic sound of the tundra at this season. When you tip your 

 head to watch these birds, and hold your breath that they may come near, you 

 are suddenly rewarded for your silence from an unexpected quarter. Upon a 

 knoll at your very feet a beautiful Longspur swells his throat in a torrent of 

 glad song. Then he rises slowly in the air and, after pausing a moment on 

 vibrant wings, floats gently back to his place, singing the while his limpid 

 melody. 



Before long the gay season will be over and the birds will be as quiet as 

 though they were sleeping. The realization of their mission is now full upon 

 them. Above them ever circles the watchful Jaeger. Some family must be 

 left bereaved if he is to dine. The Arctic Owl, too, who now must hunt in the 

 daylight, there being no darkness, does so alarmingly well. Besides, a sly 

 little, gimlet-eyed ermine is some place noiselessly stalking through the tundra 

 grass. There are no snakes, however, which should considerably gladden the 

 heart of a brave little mother bird. 



Between the first and the middle of June let us again walk upon the tundra. 

 It is gay now with sunshine and beautiful nodding flowers. There are some 

 butterflies, too, and big busy bumble-bees. You must walk warily for from 

 under your very feet now and then will flit one of the many little somber- 

 colored birds that nest on the tundra. Among the most common are the 

 Savannah Sparrow and the White- and the Golden-crowned Sparrows. If you 

 stop and search patiently for a minute you will find, cleverly concealed by dead 

 grass, an exquisitely neat little nest. It is lined with down and the woolly tops 

 of the cotton grass, and every tuft of down and silky thread is precisely where 

 it should be. The nest will probably contain three or four small mottled eggs. 

 In a week or two, if you walk again, you will see the naked, open-mouthed 

 birdlings. 



