A GLIMPSE OF THE BIRDS OF BERKELEY 



ing, mischievously question in a shrill squeak, "n>e//P well?" 

 I am speaking of the California jay, which is the common 

 species about Berkeley — a long, rather slender fellow, without 

 a crest such as the blue-fronted jay possesses. Its back is 

 colored blue and brownish gray, and its breast is a lighter gray 

 edged and faintly streaked with blue. Its manners are often 

 quiet zmd dignified when sitting still and eyeing an intruder, 

 not without a half scornful, half inquisitive glance, I fancy; 

 but with a sudden whim the saucy fellow is aroused to anima- 

 tion, flirting its tail, bending its head on one side and suddenly 

 fluttering away with a loud laugh. 



Another of my canon friends is the wren-tit, a bird which is 

 found only in California, and without a counterpart, so far as 

 I am aware, the world over. He is a friendly little fellow, 

 considerably smaller than a sparrow, but with a long tail, 

 usually held erect in true wren fashion. Its plumage is soft 

 and fluffy and its colors as sober as a monk's, brown above and 

 below, but somewhat paler on the under portions where a tinge 

 of cinnaunon appears. The wren-tit is a fearless midget of a 

 bird, hopping about in the tangle of blackberry vines almost 

 within reach of my outstretched hand, but so quiet are its colors 

 and so dense the thickets which it inhabits that the careless eye 

 might well overlook it. The little low chatter which it utters 

 tells us of its presence, and if we wait quietly for a moment it 

 may even favor us with a song — a simple strain like a high- 

 pitched pipe — tit-tit-iit-t r r r r r ee! but a sweet and character- 

 istic note in our caiions. 



As autumn moves on apace the winter birds assemble in full 

 force. The golden-crowned sparrows come flocking from their 

 Alaskan and British Columbian homes, and the Nuttall's 



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