The Song Sparrow. 125 



ence to the little songster of early spring. Mounting to 

 the summit of a small tree, or perched on a fencepost or 

 convenient stake, it proudly erects its bead, and with tail 

 pendent it chants regularly throughout the day. On its 

 northward migration it sings from gardens, hedgerows, 

 and low trees in all situations, it and the meadow lark 

 filling our suburban and rural districts with incessant 

 melody through the first three weeks of March, unless the 

 weather be unusually severe. Later, it resorts to the 

 haunts already described, and only near its nesting-places 

 is its chanting heard, unabated during the period of 

 incubation and family cares. Even during the drought 

 and heat of summer it does not neglect to practice its 

 chant from the familiar perch. 



The nesting habits of the song sparrow are well known 

 to its intimate friends. Bushes, brushpiles, and tussocks 

 of grass along the banks of streams and ponds, and along 

 hedges and roadsides are generally chosen for early sites, 

 though bushes in gardens and pastures are not neglected. 

 In fact, the nest of this species has been reported in almost 

 every sort of situation below fifteen feet above ground, in 

 trees, and even in cavities in orchard and forest trees. 

 The majority of the nests are placed on the ground in 

 grassy nooks among twigs of fallen branches. Where 

 hedges along ditches have been trimmed, and the brush 

 has lain neglected in the grass, the song sparrow finds 

 convenient sites for its lowly home. In " Birds Through 

 an Opera Glass," Miss Merriam says: "In choosing the 

 site for its nest, the song sparrow 'adapts itself to circum- 

 stances with the grace of a true philosopher. At one time 

 content with making a rude mat of straw at the bottom 

 of a roadside brush heap, at another it builds in a willow, 

 using the woolly catkins to soften the bed ; and frequently 

 it nests right on the ground, when the farmers call it the 

 * ground sparrow.' But the prettiest site of any I have 

 known was in a sweetbriar bush on the edge of the 

 garden. Here the mother could be lulled into her noon- 

 day nap by the droning of the bumble-bees buzzing about 

 the garden; or, if she chose, watch the fluttering butter- 

 flies and quivering humming birds hovering over the 

 bright flowers. Every breath of air brought her the 



