246 Bird-Land Echoes. 



"glorious, glorious." It matters nothing how far- 

 fetched are these translations of bird-notes. It is a 

 pleasing whim of all our out-door men that leads to 

 no misconceptions in scientific ornithology. 



As the shadows shortened and the day grew 

 brighter, there were other loud-singing birds that 

 took the places left by the restless jays ; and to real- 

 ize what our winter birds are, one must hear two of 

 them, at least, — the crested tit and the Carolina wren. 

 Both birds are small, both inconspicuously colored, 

 but when I add that of a bright, clear winter morn- 

 ing their cheery whistle may be heard half a mile 

 away, you will understand what these little songsters 

 really are. They are resident birds, and there is not 

 a day in the whole year when you may not hear 

 them. The weather is never so depressing that the 

 wren has no heart to call to its mate, and even a 

 November sleet will not quiet the tit, albeit it has 

 to take shelter while it sings. Above the songs at 

 sunrise, on a bonny June day, I have heard them, but 

 at no time is their singing so full of meaning as now 

 in midwinter. It can call us out even from before an 

 open fire and tempt us to an outing rather than con- 

 tinue with our back-log studies. In short, no winter 

 day can be gloomy when we have these birds about us. 



Yet another delightful feature of a day like this 

 is that of the sudden appearance of birds. Where 

 they were during the storm is a matter of doubt. 

 Some will say, roosting in the cedars, or in hollow 

 trees, or in any sheltered spot. This is plausible, 

 but you seldom find the birds when you go to these 



