WHITE-THROATED SPARROW. Ill 



of chippy, but with the sweet temper of the song 

 sparrow, these larger cousins have a thoughtful 

 bearing that harmonizes with their spring song, 

 which is tinged with sadness, like the melodious 

 call of the bluebird. 



One morning in September, not finding the 

 white-throats in the raspberry-patch, I went on to 

 a circular opening near the edge of the woods just 

 south of it. The sunlight streaming down through 

 the half Indian summer haze and melting into the 

 soft lights and shadows of the surrounding green 

 woods, gave a mystic loveliness to the spot. A 

 delicate white birch stretched up, sunning itself ; 

 a maple trunk stood in shadow with one spray of 

 a drooping branch dipped in the emerald sun dye ; 

 the red autumn leaves lodged here and there 

 seemed to be shaken out of sight by the green 

 bushes, but a breath of fresh wind murmured that 

 summer was past and was it a footstep ? No ! 

 It was an army of little autumn pedestrians ! A 

 happy host of white-throated sparrows, hopping 

 about on the ground under the bushes. Busy and 

 fearless, their footsteps pattered on the leaves, and 

 they sometimes came within two or three feet of 

 me without taking fright. A chipmunk scudded 

 through the bushes after his playfellow without 

 startling them. From every side came the happy 

 chee-ree; a cobweb shimmered in the sunlight. 

 What if fall were coming ? It brought these little 

 friends of ours ! 



