82 Bird -Lore 



visits. These spring arrivals were not the familiar chestnut-breasted Bluebird 

 of the East, but the Mountain Bluebird, a bird with beautifully shaded upper 

 parts of blue, but with a breast of soft grey. Yet, watching them from a 

 distance, one knew at once they were of the Bluebird family. 



Pheasants grew friendly; Flickers were glad of a bit of grain; even the 

 Lewis's Woodpecker discovered a crust of bread in the snow and made re- 

 peated excursions to it, always leaving in the soft snow the trail of his long, 

 forked tail. One queer little Sparrow, marked with golden brown stripes, 

 appeared often with the Juncos who never seemed to pay the slightest attention 

 to us. How it came to be here, all alone, was a mystery. Another lone little 

 bird whose acquaintance I was delighted to make was Audubon's Warbler. 

 I saw it first intently searching the bark of a tree for food, quick, active, happy, 

 in spite of deep snow on the ground and the raw wind that was blowing. At 

 first I mistook it for the Myrtle Warbler, but, on closer investigation T dis- 

 covered that the throat of this bird was yellow, rather than white, a marking 

 which at once distinguished it from the Myrtle Warbler. Again I wondered 

 how one lone little bird should be abroad on such a day. 



The Finches were strangely absent. The friendly little pair who for weeks 

 had been singing to us from the poplars and the apple trees disappeared com- 

 pletely. Where were they? And where are they? The warm days have re- 

 turned ; the snow is gone save where the deepest drifts were piled ; the Killdeers 

 keep close to their irrigated pasture; the Meadowlarks no longer venture into 

 the yard, and four Robins are the most to be seen at any one time. Other 

 birds have arrived. There is a Crested Flycatcher which perches on the 

 telephone wire outside my window and wakens me with his call each morning. 

 There are the Mourning Doves answering each other from distant trees with 

 their sad, sweet coo a-coo-coo-coo. The Yellow-headed Blackbirds have joined 

 the Redwings. The still leafless treetops have been dotted with tiny feathered 

 balls of golden yellow — dozens of sweet-voiced Goldfinches. But the House- 

 Finches have not returned to the nest-building over which they worked so 

 happily before the storm. Is it possible that they fell victims to the spring- 

 time blizzard? 



