6 Bird -Lore 



beats and offers, by a sort of magic, the first refreshment and spring cheer 

 to the winged wanderers. 



It is here, in spite of its proximity to the house, that I am sure to see 

 the first and last of the Green Herons and Black-crowned Night-Herons; 

 though of the latter there is no "last," as usually we have a pair or two 

 with us all winter, going by day to feed in the tide pool of the salt marshes, 

 and returning by night to the thick shelter of the spruces, where they will 

 have a nest or two later on. 



In the bit of meadow beyond the spring, any time from middle Feb- 

 ruary to middle March, I shall see the first glistening flock of Purple 

 Crackles, working industriously among the grass roots, drinking, perhaps, 

 if the day is mild and windless, taking a fluttering, hasty bath and then 

 mantling the big red oak in irridescent hues, akin to the reflections in 

 deep black water, while they preen and call to one another, "Here we are 

 at last, and, thank our lucky stars, these house people havenH drained our 

 pond or cut down our club-tree since we left, and they have thoughtfully 

 plowed up an old bit of meadow below in the Bluebirds Apple-tree Land, 

 from which we will pick all the big bugs and slugs and things as soon as 

 we are a bit rested." 



February was a week old when I looked out, a little after sunrise, at 

 the apple-tree feeding-place below my bedroom window. I rubbed my 

 eyes the more clearly to see what was at first a confused mass of deep 

 red and bright blue. 



The red proved to be a handful of waste cranberries, put out upon the 

 principle of giving all the variety possible, or the chance attraction of 

 novelty. The blue was not of the Jays that, as usual, were conspicuous 

 winter residents, though several of these boisterous, beautiful cowards 

 were lurking nearby, and making disagreeable remarks, in which the pres- 

 ence of the little Owl in the box had its place 



No, the blue was soft, rich, and unmistakably the color worn only by 

 Bluebirds in at least "near-spring." Three of them were there attacking 

 the tart fruit with all the vigor of Catbirds at the beginning of the berry 

 season. I could not prove it by any scientific axiom, and yet I know that 

 those birds had come in the night, how far one may not guess; for, in spite 

 of their joy in the succulent food, there was a sort of lassitude about their 

 general actions that did not belong to the roving flock of a dozen that had 

 turned up at intervals all winter. 



With bills dyed red, they presently paused, cleaned the juice off by 

 polishing on the wooden shelf with a deft sidewise motion, and then they 

 attacked the suet with as much relish as the Chickadees. 



"Go down to the farm and see the new boxes I've put up for you," I 

 said, opening the window, and quite forgetting our different methods of 

 speech: "They may not be so pleasant as the holes in the apple-trees, but 



