240 THE STORY OF THE BIRDS. 
Of course the snowbirds come. They like the 
seeds of the “wet weather” grass near the window. 
As they feed they constantly flit out the white tail 
feather as a signal, but one rushes fiercely at his fel- 
low if he feeds too near. The tree sparrow also feeds 
with them. This association is perhaps a fellow feel- 
ing because both are so far from 
home now. ,I fall out a little 
with the tree sparrow, because 
he does not sing in the yard. In 
the woods he is musical at inter- 
vals all winter. Sometimes in 
a oecrehabee Kinglet. spring my glass shows the Oregon 
ere snowbird stopping among the 
others, as he goes up North. Later the snowbird fair- 
ly giggles under the pines at the prospect of his jour- 
ney ; and, taking his song all around, it is better than 
none a great deal, and is cheering because it is always 
a dirge to winter. 
The number of birds that come in view depends 
upon the weather. I often wonder where they are 
when not with me. Even a walk on some days will 
scarcely reveal a feather. I suspect that this is as 
largely a matter of sitting still and keeping silent as 
it is the result of retiring to deeper cover. 
After the blackbirds come to the yard, however, 
they stay, rain or shine. Six or eight couples nest 
with us regularly, and, till ready for business, they 
perch on the honey locust, especially about “retiring 
time,’ and have a sort of wheezy concert. Then they 
go below and have a little quarreling about upper and 

