The Bay of the Band 
chilled, and so exhausted that for a moment he lay 
on his back in my open palm. Soon after there was 
another soft tapping at the window, —and two little 
redstarts were sharing our cheer and drying their 
butterfly wings in our warmth. 
During the summer of 1903 one of the commonest 
of the bird calls about the farm was the whistle of 
the quails. A covey roosted down the hillside within 
fifty yards of the house. Then came the winter, — 
such a winter as the birds had never known. Since 
then, just once have we heard the whistle of a quail, 
and that, perhaps, was the call of one which a game 
protective association had liberated in the woods 
about two miles away. 
The birds and animals are not as weather-wise as 
we; they cannot foretell as far ahead nor provide as 
certainly against need, despite the popular notion to 
the contrary. 
We point to the migrating birds, to the muskrat 
houses, and the hoards of the squirrels, and say, 
“ How wise and far-sighted these nature-taught chil- 
dren are!” True, they are, but only for conditions 
that are normal. Their wisdom does not cover the 
exceptional. The gray squirrels did not provide for 
102 
