8 WiDMANN, A Winter Robin Roost in Missouri. \ ^ 



L Jan. 



But while we are busy watching them, a troop of thirty Golden 

 Plovers sweeps by, low over the marsh, and seeing us, they draw 

 a few^ wide circles around us in a style which in beauty and 

 precision of execution cannot be surpassed. 



When satisfied that all is safe, they alight, all at once, as if 

 moved by a single thought, all at the very same moment, and 

 keep standing close together, all in one bunch, all pointing the 

 head one way, all motionless for several seconds, all eyes fixed 

 upon the suspicious looking intruder. They are most beautiful 

 creatures ; the symmetrically shaped body with head, neck, wings, 

 tail and legs, all in the most pleasing harmony of proportions ; 

 the large, intelligent, dark eye, set off to best advantage by a pure 

 white curve, half encircling it and running down along the side 

 of the neck ; the back reflecting golden light, while the white 

 underparts begin to show dark cloudings, in some few even a 

 black area. 



Now they begin to feed, running swiftly over the newly burnt 

 ground, gathering food at every run, when suddenly they spy a 

 large body of others of their kind, coming nearer and nearer, in 

 a long-stretched line, filling the air with a medley of melodious 

 whistles in many different keys — and up they go like a flash to 

 join their passing brothers. The whole troop, perhaps 500 in all, 

 manoeuvres now in common and like a regiment of the best 

 drilled soldiers, they perform the most astonishing evolutions in 

 turns and sweeps, now high, now low, now all a flash of brightest 

 gold, then all a streak of silvery white, almost vanishing from view 

 in the distant sky, to return with lightning rapidity so low as to 

 almost touch the ground with the tip of their long, swift pinions. 



The marsh is after all not the deserted waste for which it might 

 be taken, and though the April moon rises upon it without throw- 

 ing the shadow of high and floating grasses upon slumbering 

 Robins and Blackbirds, as it did in fall, its soft light is reflected 

 from many a golden back of north-bound wanderers who need no 

 shelter during night but nestle down upon a lawn-like ground, 

 and, judging from the countless number of white spots that mark 

 their stay, return to their favorite roost for several nights. 



And we have not yet visited the slough or lake, as it is called. 

 It is just full of life and the birds there have to-day a holiday. 



