BLUE JAYS. 251 



dead past bury its dead. One can not be happy 

 who is ever cherishing dislikes, and I find the 

 blue jay of the present sufficient unto November 

 days. For my part, he is right welcome to the 

 woods as he finds them. While the six merry 

 jays were before us, I picked a violet, a bluet, 

 and a daisy, and offered them as proof that No- 

 vember blossoms were not a myth. There are, 

 I assured my friend, more than a score of flowers 

 to be found by a little careful searching. What, 

 then, if Summer's glory has departed ; if her skies 

 are no longer overhead ; her songs no longer fill 

 the air; the odor of her blossoms no longer 

 scent the breeze ; is it not a poor wheel that can 

 not spare one spoke ? Nature is not so niggardly 

 with her gifts in November as summer tourists, 

 for instance, are apt to suppose. November is 

 comparatively bare, it is true, and positively rag- 

 ged ; but it is not always safe to judge a man by 

 his coat. 



A jay is something more than a bird with 

 blue feathers. October 23, 1889, it snowed vio- 

 lently for three hours, and the ground was white. 

 Masses of snow, too, clung to the limp foliage 

 that remained, and gave a curious aspect to the 

 wooded hillsides. It was then that the jays 

 were moved to unwonted activity, and I saw 

 them at their best. The snow puzzled them, 

 and, being intent upon their own affairs, they 



