PLEASANT OUTINGS 263 



me to make sure of their identity. The crossbill if 

 the individual seen was a bird of that species wore a 

 reddish jacket, explored the pine cones, and sang a very 

 respectable song somewhat on the grosbeak order, quite 

 blithe, loud, and cheerful. 



On our return trip to Denver we stopped for a couple 

 of days at the quiet village of Jefferson in South Park, 

 and we shall never cease to be thankful that our good 

 fairies led us to do so. What birds, think you, find 

 residence in a green, well-watered park over nine thou- 

 sand feet above sea-level, hemmed in by towering, snow- 

 clad mountains ? Spread out around you like a cyclorama 

 lies the plateau as you descend the mountain side from 

 Kenosha Pass ; or wheel around a lofty spur of Mount 

 Boreas, and you almost feel as if you must be entering 

 Paradise. It was the fifth of July, and the park had 

 donned its holiday attire, the meadows wearing robes of 

 emerald, dappled here and there with garden spots of 

 variegated flowers that brought more than one excla- 

 mation of delight from our lips. 



Before leaving the village, our attention was called to 

 a colony of cliff-swallows, the first we had seen in our 

 touring among the mountains. Against the bare wall 

 beneath the eaves of a barn they had plastered their 

 adobe, bottle-shaped domiciles, hundreds of them, some 

 in orderly rows, others in promiscuous clusters. At 

 dusk, when we returned to the village, the birds were 



