the fields and meadows, he seldom ven- 

 tures far from them. It is difficult to 

 tell the migrant from the resident, but 

 they come north at this time. If any 

 wonder should arise as to the name go 

 and hear him sing once. 



About the same date the plover or 

 killdeer reaches home. He is distinc- 

 tively a bird of the fields and shows his 

 kinship to birds of the plover family 

 by his peculiar cry and funny way he has 

 of running about. These birds will all 

 probably be here by the lOth of the 

 month, though they vary some. Then 

 comes the" red-winged blackbird. There 

 is no trouble in seeing the red spot on 

 the shoulder of the male and salmon on 

 the shoulder of the female. Lowell has 

 aptly described the song when he says, 

 "The redwing flutes his oak-a-lee.". For 

 that is just what he does, plays a won- 

 derfully sweet-toned silvery flute that 

 has in its rendering the sweetest of mel- 

 ody. 



About this time the cowbird comes 

 north. He is distinguished or rather 

 disgraced by the practice of polygamy. 

 Each of the dark males may have several 

 of the brown females for wives. Then, 

 in keeping with this lack of morality, the 

 female lays her eggs in some other bird's 

 nest, preferably a vireo or warbler's nest. 

 They take their name from the habit 

 of following cattle about and feeding on 

 insects disturbed by them. The next 

 to come will in all likelihood be the che- 

 wink. Though he is mostly a bird of 

 the woods, yet he sometimes ventures 

 within city limits. A slight acquaintance 

 with this black and brown bird will soon 

 show whence his name comes. 



March will be almost to a close, maybe 

 April will be here before the vesper spar- 

 row and pewee arrive. When the even- 

 ings are growing long and twilight lin- 

 gers mellow the vesper sparrow delights 

 to perch on a stone in some field and sing 

 his song to the passing day. You Avould 

 hardly suppose that the sparrow which 

 darts from one fence corner to another, 

 showing those two white quill feathers, 

 could be such a sweet singer. But listen 

 some evening and you will understand 

 what John Burroughs says of the vesper 

 sparrow. 



Now come the first of the flycatcher 

 family, the pewees. They go south be- 

 cause it is so difficult for a member of 

 that family to find a supply of food in 

 cold weather. It is no trouble to tell 

 whence the name comes. About here they 

 are among the most numerous of birds. 

 You can tell a pewee not only by its cry 

 but from the curious habit it has of al- 

 ways alighting on a dead branch. Though 

 I have noticed them hundreds of times, 

 I have yet to see one select a living 

 branch. 



Who does not know that tiny brown 

 bird with long slim tail, that sings so 

 sweetly from the fence or roof of the 

 house, the house wren? There is no 

 question but that he believes in civiliza- 

 tion, for the small brown mother will 

 come right into the shed and build a nest 

 in some basket or box, or in an old coat 

 or piece of carpet. Cats are their worst 

 enemy, but they prefer grimalkin to the 

 danger of hawks. He sings with all the 

 bubbling energy of the wren family, and 

 it is surprising how much music can 

 come from so small a bird. 



The kinglets now give us a visit on 

 their northern journey. Sometimes I 

 have watched them through the softly 

 falling snow and again among the apple 

 blossoms, though they generally reach 

 here when the maples are in flower. The 

 golden-crown is the most common about 

 here; at least I have seen but little of 

 the ruby-crown. Though they do not 

 sing until reaching their northern home, 

 they are well worth the time spent in 

 stutiying them. 



Now the birds come in steadily accel- 

 erated waves — the brown* thrush, the 

 fox sparrow, the white crowned sparrow, 

 the white throated sparrow and the chip- 

 ping sparrow. The last named is the 

 smallest of the sparrow family. Notice a 

 very small sparrow with a red cap edged 

 with white. He is not a sweet singer, 

 but trills away by the hour, it seems. 



But the brown thrush ! Who does not 

 know him? As we have all read in the 

 old school reader, 



"There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in 



the tree, 

 He's singing for me. He's singing for me." 



162 



