Birds and Seasons in My Garden 5 



tune of very skeptical remarks by the man who did the climbing, 

 to the effect that I might get a gray squirrel to look at the box, 

 but, as for anything as leery as an Owl, it would look like a trap — 

 new wood too. Here a sniff came in for punctuation. But then, the 

 box was of an awkward shape to get between the thick branches, and 

 it was a sticky rough bit of climbing which may be considered as tinging 

 his opinion. 



Box No. 2, on the taller tree, stood out well from the branches and 

 caught every possible ray of sunlight, while the other was in a thickly 

 wooded place shadow, except for a short time in the afternoon. 



Three days later, the doubting Thomas called me. He was chopping 

 wood under box No. i, to which he called my attention by an upward jerk 

 of his thumb. There, completely filling the doorway, was the head of a 

 rust-red Screech Owl, eyes apparently closed, yet evidently sufiiciently 

 awake to enjoy his sun-bath to the full. Every bright day until the present 

 found him at his post, but on cloudy days he was absent, and also toward 

 dusk, but if he was inside the box or in more secluded quarters I do not 

 know. 



Perhaps he goes to tell the news to a mate in other woods. If so, when 

 they set up housekeeping in which box will it be? In sun or shade? The 

 winter hollow will be a bake-house before the owlets, who take plenty of 

 time to grow, leave the nest. On the other hand, the box in the grove will 

 be chilly in early April. The matter is quite a pretty problem, well worth 

 watching, and brings one to thoughts of the nesting season even before 

 there is a single wing-flutter of the spring migration. 



"Spring migration," you echo in amazement, "with a fresh fall of snow 

 last night, Redpolls at the feeding place this morning, and the ranks of 

 winter residents and visitors still unbroken?" 



Yes, in spite of many signs, and the fact that even in southern New 

 England February and March are often the most rigorous of winter months, 

 a sunny February day holds up the promise of spring, at least to the mental 

 vision, as clear as if reflected by a Claude mirror. 



The thaw of last week freed the pool of ice, and, where the light snow 

 that fell for an hour last night edges the water, there is a greenish tinge to 

 the overhanging grass. Yes, and the ripple on the water is made by a 

 Song Sparrow drinking. True, he may be a winter bird, but then again 

 he may be a pioneer of the first upward flight. I have seen Red-wings, 

 Robins and Bluebirds that I knew to be migrants all drinking in this pool, 

 which is a natural spring, the last week in February. And what a bird- 

 lure is this pool in and out of season! For, when an August drought dries 

 many a merry stream, there is always water here; and, even when ice freezes 

 to an inch-depth every night, this little spring held, as it seems to be, in 

 the warm palm of a particular bit of Mother Earth, feels her warm heart- 



