THE PASSING OF THE FLOCKS 



IT is September. August — the month of gray 

 days for birds — has passed. The last piu- 

 feather of the new winter plumage has burst its 

 sheath, and is sleek and glistening from its thor- 

 ough oiling with waterproof dressing, which the 

 birds squeeze out with their bills from a special 

 gland, and which they rub into every part of their 

 plumage. The youngsters, now grown as large as 

 their parents, have become proficient in fly-catch- 

 ing or berry-picking, as the case may be. Hence- 

 forth they forage for themselves, although if we 

 watch carefully we may still see a parent's love 

 prompting it to give a berry to its big offspring 

 (indistinguishable save for this attention), who 

 greedily devours it without so much as a wing 

 flutter of thanks. 



Two courses are open to the young birds who 

 have been so fortunate as to escape the dangers 

 of nestlinghood. They may unite in neighbourly 

 flocks with others of their kind, as do the black- 

 birds of the marshes; or they may wander off by 

 themselves, never going very far from their sum- 

 mer home, but perching alone each night in the 

 thick foliage of some sheltering bush. 



How wonderfully the little fellow adapts him- 

 self to the radical and sudden change in his life ! 



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