THE DRAWBRIDGE. 291 



see one. Many a flock of snow - buntings lias one or 

 more long-spurs, I am sure ; but it is no easy task to 

 single them out. I well remember the first and only 

 flock of them I ever saw. It was a wild March day, and 

 far more wintry than had been any of the days in Feb- 

 ruary. I was crossing a wide field, covered with a thin 

 and ragged sheet of snow. Up from the weeds they 

 rose, like frightened larks, and sailing past me but lit- 

 tle above my head, they twittered, one and all, most 

 musically. 



I stood watching them for several minutes, when they 

 returned and settled very near their former feeding- 

 ground. I approached cautiously, down upon all fours, 

 and got near enough to see them plainly. There could 

 be no mistake, they were long-spurs. But I need not 

 have been so painstaking. As I flushed them the second 

 time, one of them sang while on the wing. There was 

 no mistaking that ; no other of our winter birds has so 

 sweet and artistic a song. 



Not even the highest and widest of snow-drifts can 

 drive a grass-finch from his native field. If needs be, it 

 will burrow under it, and find many a meal of grass 

 seed where other finches would starve. For years they 

 puzzled me, but at last I learned their secret. When 

 an unusual snow-fall occurs, the finches take refuge in 

 the angles of the old worm-fences, and the bottom rail 

 is sure to afford some shelter unless the drift forms here. 

 From this vantage-ground the bird will work beneath 

 the snow for several feet, and get at seed-bearing weeds 

 that are quite hidden from birds flying over the fields. 

 Let some such strange weather occur that every other 



