226 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



age, his sharp crest, his bright eye, and his gaudy 

 vest make him a beautiful creature, reminding me 

 of the cedarbird in form. Clear and high, when 

 food hunting around the Cabin and especially in 

 spring, he calls: "Hewit, hewit!" very seldom re- 

 peating the words more than once, each time making 

 them clearly words, as I should speak them; at 

 other times he drags his utterances. His song 

 is high, clear, and beautifully musical in the winter 

 woods, but so nearly like the wren's in bubbling 

 spontaneity that I again confess myself unable to 

 put it into syllables or give it sympathetic descrip- 

 tion. 



The master singer of our winter woods, with one 

 exception the bird dearest to my heart, is the song 

 sparrow. His call note is a clear "Chip! chip!" 

 One of these birds homed on a small point and was 

 nesting there, when I purchased my present loca- 

 tion. I staked off his site, and every man of 

 dozens of workers, spending a year in the construc- 

 tion of the Cabin, knew about the song sparrow's 

 nest; while most of them tossed him crumbs from 

 their dinner pails. Every winter he has homed 

 with us, and at times when no other bird — not 

 even the cardinal — lifts his voice, the song sparrow, 

 perching on a maple down at the shore line, in 

 bold, clear tones, has given at least a short concert 

 in the morning during our bitterest January 

 weather, until the extreme cold of 1918, during 

 which I lost him. A song sparrow came to the 



