3'2o Bird - Lore 



while in another they roam in small flocks from weed-stalk to thistle with 

 accustomed grace and sociability. 



The alert Song Sparrows still dodge about the bushes and roadside; out 

 in the fields, a few dignified Crows are searching for insects; the easy-gliding 

 Marsh Hawk skims over the lowlands with watchful eye, while from the limb 

 of a dead tree nearby a small Flycatcher darts out — The Alder, so far as one 

 may judge by form and color. 



Phcebes, for the most part silent, abound on fences and wires, jerking their 

 tails as usual; but there is no sign of the Least Flycatcher which all summer 

 has made itself known by its oft-reiterated call, chebec. The Ruby-throated 

 Humming-bird has not gone yet, for it visits the beds of nasturtiums, poppies 

 and scarlet runner about the door daily, occasionally uttering a thin, wiry 

 chit-t-t-t, especially if disturbed by an intruder of its own kind. Its stay will 

 be brief now, however. 



The Hairy Woodpecker, in company with Chickadees and White-breasted 

 Nuthatches of more stable disposition, keeps at its accustomed work in the 

 woods; but though the Blue Jay's noisy, familiar call now and then strikes the 

 ear, there is a strange silence everywhere, and a deserted appearance out-of- 

 doors, in striking contrast to the busy hum of spring and early summer. 



The Savanna Sparrow is still here, and the Kingfisher, if that flash of wings 

 along the narrow stream is not misleading, but the Swallows have been gather- 

 ing together and leaving for some time. The Robins, too, seem to be flocking, 

 though occasionally a single individual is seen feeding leisurely, as though 

 winter were never to be reckoned with. 



A sudden, golden flash brings a thrill of joy, as one, then two male Balti- 

 more Orioles flash by, females or young in their train; but the joy is short- 

 lived, and a feeling of loneliness comes over one as the feathered folk make 

 ready for departure. The pine tree of the North seems very far away from the 

 palm tree of the South. 



But how glad we should be that not all of our birds leave us at this season. 

 The cheery Junco has already begun to arrive, to swell the ranks of winter 

 residents. It will not be long until the Tree Sparrow and the Pine Siskin come 

 also; and when the snow flies we may expect the merry Snowflakes and Red- 

 polls, with Crossbills, and possibly the rarer Pine Grosbeak. Indeed, there is 

 so much to look for and to enjoy at any season of the year that we need not 

 complain when summer is over, and autumn frosts turn the leaves and nip our 

 late-flowering plants. 



One cannot help wondering, as the seasons pass, whether birds do not have 

 a sense of changing conditions, in spite of their fluffy feather covering which 

 protects them so well both from cold and heat. We feel the difference between 

 August warmth and November chill, and all vegetation feels it too, and shows 

 it, except the evergreen trees and ground-pines, the mosses and lichens, and 

 such hardy growths. Why not the birds, too? It has been thought by some 



