In Winter Fields 51 



in the oak, "for all his feathers was a-cold." I halted 

 at the foot of the dooryard steps, and cast an anxious look 

 upward to see if the jay which I had heard from the fireside 

 had deserted. I am superstitious enough to think that it 

 augurs well for the success of a bird-hunting trip to see some 

 feathered character at the start. This bit of superstition is, 

 I believe, common to all bird-students. The jay was still 

 there. It is perhaps the commonest bird of this locality, 

 both in winter and summer. You can always count upon the 

 jay's doing something new. This doorstep jay did some- 

 thing decidedly new— he dropped from his beak to the ground 

 at my feet a round, flat, smooth stone of the diameter of an 

 inch. It was one of the kind of which thousands may be 

 found along the lake shore. I should judge, from a long and 

 somewhat intimate acquaintance with jays, that they have not 

 the regular habit of making stone-boats of their beaks. I 

 picked the stone up, and asked the bird what he had intended 

 to do with it. He cocked his head on one side, looked down 

 on me, and screamed "Thief" at the top of his lungs. I 

 agree with Bradford Torrey that this bird says "thief" much 

 more plainly than he says "jay." Thus he characterizes him- 

 self as well as if he spoke English more fluently. The jay is 

 essentially a thief, and seems to take delight in proclaiming 

 the fact to the world. 



On the outskirts of Highland Park there is a patch of 

 dense undergrowth. Before the heavier timber was cut 

 down, the place was known as Hamilton's Woods. Some 

 years ago these acres of underbrush were divided into town 

 lots, and a new city was to spring up. One house and an 

 ambitious cement sidewalk with plank extensions are all that 

 remain as monuments to the purpose and hope of the pro- 



