348 Aim ERIC AN ORNITHOLOGY. 



THE NUTTALL WHITE^CROWNED SPARROW. 



By Wm. Rogers Lord. 



Every locality on our continent has its own special birds, sufficiently 

 numerous to be called common, whose songs are of especially fine 

 quality. There are everywhere generally recognized "the two or three 

 best" singers. For a considerable extent of longitude and latitude in 

 New England and the Middle Atlantic States, we have, for example, 

 the Song Sparrow and the Wood Thrush. Further north, the White- 

 throated Sparrow and the Hermit Thrush. 



On the Pacific Coast, in western Oregon, through the Puget Sound 

 region in Washington and into British Columbia, there are two birds 

 which are in every field or upon every bush, inviting the attention of 

 even the dullest ear to their marvelously rich and altogether fine sing- 

 ing. These are the Western Meadowlark and Nuttall (till lately, when 

 renamed, the Gambel) White-crowned Sparrow. Let me introduce the 

 readers of American Ornithology to the latter, a subspecies' of our 

 Eastern White-crowned Sparrow. This bird passes the winter in Cali- 

 fornia but appears in the Willamette Valley, Oregon, about April 1st. 

 It is not only very abundant but also fond of civilization and a never 

 wearying and always beautiful singer. Wherever you go about the 

 vacant lots of a city, even one as large as Portland, the fascinating 

 song of this little creature greets you. There is a tender plaintive 

 quality in the bird's voice that adds to its charm, a timbre not unlike 

 that of the White-throated Sparrow of the east, and some would say 

 the song is quite as fascinating, while all would agree it is very little 

 less so. 



The bird further draws every bird-lover to him, when out of the dark- 

 ness of the night, comes sometimes as often as once an hour, his loving 

 and lovely song. If there is woodbine or honeysuckle about the porch 

 or piazza, it is not unlikely the nest may be placed there. One can 

 imagine what delight is in store for the human family behind the win- 

 dows, if ears and eyes and hearts have been opened at all birdward. 

 There is a further fascination about the bird in the matter of song, since 

 he is a tireless singer, defiant of storm and hot sun. From morn till 

 eve, and at times from eve till morn, as I have stated, he utters his 

 sweet invitation to hear him. At midday when the sun is burning, 

 most birds are silent, retiring to shade or brook, but this little fellow 

 sits upon bush or low tree and repeats his melody a hundred times. 



The form of the song varies in widely separated localities. Within 

 limited ranges, the song is very nearly uniform. About Portland, 

 Oregon, the common song has been translated by a sensitive listener 

 into "Sweet, sweet, listen to me won't you?" But around Puget Sound, 



