» PROCEEDINGS OP THE 



Chickadees, never more than four in number, and we would 

 flush an occasional Blue Jay. Two Kinglets — the Golden-crown 

 — were come upon one day on our way home from White's Bog 

 through pines rather higher than most in the neighborhood, and 

 once two little Brown Creepers turned up with the Chickadees 

 that were always about the pond. These eleven varieties were 

 all we saw in the barrens — unless you may count the Black 

 Ducks of the pond — and all these but the Kinglets and the 

 Creepers were found also in the cleared land westward, and, 

 with the exception of the Pine Warblers, were plentiful there. 



Three miles westward from Brown's Mills you arc in as tine 

 land as may be found in all Burlington County, the banner 

 farming district of New Jersey. Here birds were much plentier 

 than in the barrens, and in drives and walks to Pemberton and 

 Lewistown and Pointville we found Bluebirds about everj- 

 orchard, Meadow Larks in every great flat field. Song Sparrows 

 by every road-side and stream-side and fence-row, Crackles in 

 every group of spruces and pines about the farm-houses, many 

 of which were great structures of old red brick or old white 

 clapboards. Redwings were less plenty, but they were tuning 

 up, as yet but hoarsely, from many bottoms. Robins were, 

 curiously, not so abundant as in the cleared land about Brown's 

 Mills; nor were the Vesper Sparrows. Perhaps the flocks of 

 these latter two varieties were halting here, in this warm oasis 

 of farm land in the pines, before going further north. 



The Robins and Vesper Sparrows were particularly in evi- 

 dence on Sunday, March 31st. Toward noon we walked up the 

 Pemberton road. There had been no sun all morning, and even 

 now cold, gray clouds walled all the skies; yet there was a glare 

 over the white-sandy fields, the steely-dyked ponds and even 

 the solid-green pines, an unaccountable weird-gray glare. It 

 was a sky that foreboded snow, yet the day was not cold. A 

 wild-flying bird drove eccentrically northward in curved zig- 

 zags. Its crying was strangely familiar, but for a moment I 

 could not identify it. A ragged piner boy came to the rescue. 

 Playing before a dilapidated shack by the roadside, which 

 leaned westward like the blown trees of a seabeach, he saw my 

 perplexity and cried, " That's a Killdeer, Mister." That cry- 



