A DAY IN AN OLD ORCHARD. 135 



in all kinds of weather. This bird has always so de- 

 hghted me that I often speak of him, and wish every- 

 body to .know him for the treasure that he is. 



On the side of a knoll, near the little creek, I found 

 the nest of a snow bird, or slate-colored sparrow {Junco 

 Mj emails). It was sheltered by a tussock of grass, and 

 like all of these nests, was deep and finely finished. 

 There were four eggs, and, I judged, nearly ready to 

 hatch. This is the fourth nest of the Juncos that I 

 have found this season. 



Bobolinks frequently came from the adjoining mea- 

 dow, and alighting on the trees or fence rattled olf their 

 unintelligible though always musical jargon , and then 

 sailed or fluttered back to their mates in the grass. The 

 charm of the orchard is incomplete without their jingle. 

 Two or three orchard orioles were already here — good 

 singers, but seemingly shy and furtive. Their hand- 

 some and bolder cousins, the Baltimore orioles, were 

 dividing their time between snatches of songs and calls 

 to one another. Their songs are not satisfactory. There 

 is an unfinished, incompleteness about them; the ear 

 expects something more than it usually gets. These 

 birds, above all others, seem to possess capabilities 

 which they never reach. Masters of loud, clear and 

 liquid notes, they seem content to call an,d scold and 

 blurt out parts of strains which they never finish. They 

 have learned one thing, however, greatly to their advan- 

 tage — that is, placing their swinging nests out of reach of 

 most animals of prey, boys not excepted. A half dozen 

 of their last year's nests were still swinging from the 



