AMONG THE BIRDS OF THE YOSEMITE 237 



descend like most other summer visitors in con- 

 cord with the weather, keeping out of the first 

 heavy snows as much as possible, while lingering 

 among the frost-nipped wild cherries on the 

 slopes just below the glacier meadows. Thence 

 they go to the lower slopes of the forest region, 

 compelled to make haste at times by heavy all- 

 day storms, picking up seeds or benumbed in- 

 sects by the way ; and at last all, save a few that 

 winter in Yosemite valleys, arrive in the vine- 

 yards and orchards and stubble-fields of the low- 

 lands in November, picking up fallen fruit and 

 grain, and awakening old-time memories among 

 the white-headed pioneers, who cannot fail to 

 recognize the influence of so homelike a bird. 

 They are then in flocks of hundreds, and make 

 their way into the gardens of towns as well as 

 into the parks and fields and orchards about the 

 bay of San Francisco, where many of the wan- 

 derers are shot for sport and the morsel of meat 

 on their breasts. Man then seems a beast of 

 prey. Not even genuine piety can make the 

 robin-killer quite respectable. Saturday is the 

 great slaughter day in the bay region. Then 

 the city pot-hunters, with a rag-tag of boys, go 

 forth to kill, kept in countenance by a sprinkling 

 of regular sportsmen arrayed in self-conscious 

 majesty and leggins, leading dogs and carrying 

 hammerless, breech-loading guns of famous 

 makers. Over the fine landscapes the killing 



