FAR AND NEAR 



The only one of our winter birds that really seems 

 a part of the winter, that seems to be bom of the 

 whirling snow, and to be happiest when storms drive 

 thickest and coldest, is the snow bunting, the real 

 snowbird, with plumage copied from the fields where 

 the drifts hide all but the tops of the tallest weeds, — 

 large spaces of pure white touched here and there 

 with black and gray and brown. Its twittering call 

 and chirrup coming out of the white obscurity is the 

 sweetest and happiest of all winter bird sounds. It 

 is Uke the laughter of children. The fox-hunter 

 hears it on the snowy hills, the farmer hears it when 

 he goes to fodder his cattle from the distant stack, 

 the country schoolboy hears it as he breaks his way 

 through the drifts toward the school. It is ever a 

 voice of good cheer and contentment. 



One March, during a deep snow, a large flock of 

 buntings stayed about my vineyards for several days, 

 feeding upon the seeds of redroot and other weeds 

 that stood above the snow. What boyhood associa- 

 tions their soft and cheery calls brought up! How 

 plump and well-fed and hardy they looked, and how 

 alert and suspicious they were ! They evidently had 

 had experiences with hawks and shrikes. Every 

 minute or two they would all spring into the air as 

 one bird, circle about for a moment, then alight upon 

 the snow again. Occasionally one would perch upon 

 a wire or grapevine, as if to keep watch and ward. 



Presently, while I stood in front of my study look- 

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