FIRST WEEK] September 231 



tucks his wee head behind his wing, and sleeps the sleep of 

 his first adult birdhood as soundly as if this position of 

 rest had been familiar to him since he broke through the 

 shell. 



We admire his aptitude for learning; how quickly his 

 wings gain strength and skill; how soon he manages to 

 catch his own dinner. But how all this pales before the 

 accomplishment of a young brush turkey or moundbuilder 

 of the antipodes. Hatched six or eight feet under ground, 

 merely by the heat of decaying vegetation, no fond parents 

 minister to his wants. Not only must he escape from the 

 shell in the pressure and darkness of his underground 

 prison (how we cannot tell), but he is then compelled to 

 dig through six feet of leaves and mould before he reaches 

 the sunlight. He finds himself well feathered, and at once 

 spreads his small but perfect wings and goes humming off 

 to seek his living alone and unattended. 



It is September the month of restlessness for the 

 birds. Weeks ago the first migrants started on their 

 southward journey, the more delicate insect-eaters going 

 first, before the goldfinches and other late nesters had half 

 finished housekeeping. The northern warblers drift past 

 us southward the magnolia, blackburnian, Canadian 

 fly-catching, and others, bringing memories of spruce and 

 balsam to those of us who have lived with them in the 

 forests of the north. 



" It's getting too cold for the little fellows," says the 

 wiseacre, who sees you watching the smaller birds as they 

 pass southward. Is it, though? What of the tiny winter 

 wren which spends the zero weather with us? His coat is 



