SNOW STORIES 47 



for us. In the migration season there is great rivalry 

 as to who shall meet the greatest number from the 

 crowd of travelers going north. Last year my best 

 day's record was eighty-four different kinds of 

 birds, which beat the Botanist by two. A black duck 

 and a late bay-breasted warbler were the cause of 

 his undoing. To a birdist every walk is full of possi- 

 bilities. Any day, anywhere, some bird may flash 

 into sight for the first time. 



The Botanist has pointed out to me not fewer than 

 twenty times the sacred field where, one bitter win- 

 ter day, he saw his first (and last) flock of horned 

 larks. For my part, I never fail to show him the pig- 

 nut hickory where my first golden-winged warbler 

 spoke to me one May morning. 



To-day, however, our walk was almost a birdless 

 one. We heard the caw of the crow, the only bird- 

 note that can be certainly counted on for every day 

 of the year. We saw the flutter of the white skirts 

 of the j uncos. From a blighted chestnut tree we saw 

 a bird flash down into the dry grass from his perch 

 on a dead limb. As we came nearer, he glided off like 

 a little aeroplane, and we recognized the flight and 

 the spotted buff waistcoat of the sparrow-hawk 

 hunting meadow-mice. 



Later in the morning we heard the "Pip, pip," 

 of the song sparrow, and marked the black spot 

 on his breast. Far ahead, across a snow-covered 

 meadow, a bird flew dippingly up and down. He had 

 laid aside his canary-yellow and black suit, but his 

 flight bewrayed the goldfinch. 



