°i8gs J WiDiMANN, Bati'd^s a?id Leconte's Sparrows. 



The air is filled with bird voices ; the l^lackbirds are seen and 

 heard in all directions. What would the marsh be without its 

 Blackbirds? A dreary ocean of monotony! With them all is 

 life, ever-changing life ; a constant coming and going, a uniting 

 and separating, now here, now there, down on the ground, high 

 in the air and even on the lake itself ; and withal a kaleidoscopic 

 frolic, produced by only a small variety of individual sounds, 

 perhaps not more in number than the letters of our alphabet, but 

 through their endless and ever-varying juxtaposition, creating a 

 medley of indescribable and unique grandeur. 



Just back of us in the persimmon patch there is as busy an 

 army of feeding birds as can be found ; they are on the ground, 

 almost covering it. Every now and then, without apparent cause, 

 all go up in a body — and what a cloud they make ! They are 

 all Red-winged Blackbirds, old and young, but those in spotted 

 garb outnumber the redshouldered black as ten to one. The 

 persimmon fruit is now ripe and ready to drop. The whir of the 

 hundreds of wings is heard only for a moment ; after a beautifully 

 executed turn the cloud settles on the now leafless trees on which 

 some fruit is still hanging. 



Probably the whole manoeuvring is carried out only for the 

 purpose to shake the fruit from the trees ; the last has hardly 

 settled in the trees when the first already begin to descend, and 

 soon all feed eagerly on the sweet and succulent persimmons 

 lying on the ground. 



At once there is another rustle of wings and all go up into the 

 trees. A young Redtail approaches and settles right in their 

 midst. Not a single one of the Blackies leaves the trees ; the only 

 precaution they take is that they gain a position above him. They 

 are evidently not a bit afraid of him. His eyes are fixed upon 

 the ground beneath, but he does not find there what he is looking 

 for. The Redwings have monopolized the persimmon grounds to 

 the exclusion of fur-bearing lovers of the tidbit. 



From dozens of happy throats comes the pleasing song of the 

 Meadowlark ; they seem to take now the leading part in the 

 concert, which the Robin had a little earlier in the morning. Into 

 the tree above us a party of Goldfinches drops for a minute. They 

 rest, but only their wings rest ; the tongues do not rest, and though 



