FLORENCE MERRIAM BAILE Y \ 3 



Even in winter, when most of us note few but the 

 English Sparrow, the city is not without its native 

 bird residents and affords opportunities for delightful 

 encounters with straying northerners visiting the 

 capital. 



Much to the satisfaction of inlanders unacquainted 

 with coast birds, the singular car of the Fish Crow 

 may be heard all winter about the Smithsonian, for 

 the birds make themselves at home on its towers and 

 regardless of spectators perch on the bare trees near 

 by. Sometimes when walking through the grounds 

 one discovers a small tree filled apparently with 

 round apples, which on approach turn into a flock 

 of plump Waxwings conversing in their low mono- 

 syllables. In passing weed-grown vacant lots one 

 often starts up a flock of twittering Juncos the slate- 

 colored Snowbirds and one day I chanced along 

 just as a small Hawk darted down from his ambus- 

 cade scattering a little band which had been feeding 

 quietly among the weeds. Throughout the winter 

 we are honored by the presence of the Red-headed 

 Woodpecker, splendid beauty that he is, and in the 

 oaks of Washington Heights we may often hear his 

 rattling kcrrr'r and get sight of the handsome tri- 

 color coats of two or three of the Red-heads disport- 

 ing on the bare trees. In park shrubbery throughout 

 the city the cheering voice of the Song Sparrow 

 may often be heard, sounding peculiarly gentle and 

 melodious in contrast to the quarrelsome winter 

 chatter of the English Sparrow. The whistle of the 

 White-throat and the small notes of the Kinglets are 

 also common winter park sounds. Now and then, 

 too, the sweet sad call of the Bluebird stirs our hearts 

 with its promise of spring. 



