THE PERCHING Birps. 99 
of mine, not because there is so much of him as so 
much of them. It is a case where one is not as good 
as a hundred, but just the opposite, and a hundred, 
fortunately, are easier found than one. Nuttall speaks 
of two or three singing together. I have heard a 
full chorus, and it is then music that makes you for- 
get the “ deadness” of the season. 
Akin to this bird is the true “ Chippy,” the little 
chestnut-crowned fellow that becomes so delightfully 
tame. If it were not for the infernal cats that people 
persist in keeping about, I believe the chippies would 
venture in through open windows and peck crumbs 
from the table. This bird is the type of gentleness, 
and I have several times obtained its perfect confi- 
dence. To a certain extent they are migratory, 
coming early in spring and retiring when winter 
fairly sets in; but a few remain, finding some cosey 
nook that shelters them in severe weather; but if 
there is food sufficient, mere cold of itself does not 
seem to incommode them. 
Strangely enough, many people confound the Field- 
sparrow with the Chippy. They are only alike in 
being equally delightful. The chippy’s song, so 
simple yet so sweet, a mere ¢s¢-¢s¢-¢st-ts¢-tsee, the last 
“syllable” being long-drawn, “almost like the jin- 
eling of farthings,’ as Nuttall puts it, is very differ- 
ent in tone, volume, and animation from the clear, 
well-rounded ¢e-de-de-de-de-d-d-d that rings from 
early morning until after sunset in our pastures. I 
say “pastures” rather than “ fields,” for the bird has 
always seemed to me to prefer the grass and a 
goodly sprinkling of weeds to cultivated acres. 
