The Audubon Societies 



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but luck is not with us. Even the hollow tree that has always sheltered a 

 Screech Owl stands empty. A sharp call from a thick patch of sumac at one 

 side of the orchard, however, gives us a start. It has such a familiar sound, 

 yet one that we have not heard for so long that at first we do not recognize our 

 old friend 'Cock Robin.' All his relatives left over a month ago, but this daring 

 bird had apparently determined to brave the winter and eke out his living from 

 the sumac bobs, the frozen apples, and the blue berries of the red cedars which 

 cover a sheltered hillside just beyond. His red breast is veiled by the gray 

 tips of the feathers, and he is by no means the tame, confiding, and conspicuous 

 bird that frequents our lawns during 

 spring and summer. Indeed, we get but a 

 glimpse of him as he darts off through the 

 thicket; he is wilder than the Redpolls. 

 The hillside covered with junipers 

 yields us nothing new, though it is 

 crossed and recrossed by the tracks of 

 a cock Pheasant and at least two hens. 

 Molly Cottontail has apparently played 

 tag here with several of her friends, 

 though most of the tracks are con- 

 cealed by the snow of the early morn- 

 ing. So, we continue on to the woods 

 beyond and soon are scanning the trunks 

 of the maples for the owner of the shrill 

 sibilant voice that we heard as we climbed 

 the fence. It sounded like a Brown 

 Creeper but since Golden-crowned King- 

 lets and even Chickadees have notes 

 which are quite similar, we search until 

 we find our bird. At last a flake of bark 

 apparently flips off from the trunk of a big 

 maple, 30 feet from the ground, and sails 

 down to the base of an adjacent tree, 

 and we know that we have found the 

 Creeper. Upward he goes on his never- 

 ending search for insects, spiralling around the trunk and never stopping. 

 We station ourselves near an adjacent tree in the direction in which he 

 seems to be trending, and, sure enough, after spiralling nearly to the top of 

 his tree, he glides down to the base of the tree where we are standing, barely 

 missing us in passing. Either he has become near-sighted from "keeping his 

 nose to the grindstone" or else he is lacking in fear or common sense, for he 

 pays not the slightest attention to us but continues on his spiral course almost 

 within arm's length. He is not alone, we soon realize, for we hear the notes of 



A BROWN CREEPER ATTRACTED BY 

 SUET FROM HIS HOME IN THE OAK 

 GROVE TO THIS STUB BY THE WINDOW 



Photographed by A. A. Allen 



