SNOW STORIES 47 
for us. In the migration season there is great rivalry 
as to who shall meet the greatest number from the 
crowd of travelers going north. Last year my best 
day’s record was eighty-four different kinds of 
birds, which beat the Botanist by two. A black duck 
and a late bay-breasted warbler were the cause of 
his undoing. To a birdist every walk is full of possi- 
bilities. Any day, anywhere, some bird may flash 
into sight for the first time. 
The Botanist has pointed out to me not fewer than 
twenty times the sacred field where, one bitter win- 
ter day, he saw his first (and last) flock of horned 
larks. For my part, I never fail to show him the pig- 
nut hickory where my first golden-winged warbler 
spoke to me one May morning. 
To-day, however, our walk was almost a birdless 
one. We heard the caw of the crow, the only bird- 
note that can be certainly counted on for every day 
of the year. We saw the flutter of the white skirts 
of the juncos. From a blighted chestnut tree we saw 
a bird flash down into the dry grass from his perch 
on a dead limb. As we came nearer, he glided off like 
a little aeroplane, and we recognized the flight and 
the spotted buff waistcoat of the sparrow-hawk 
hunting meadow-mice. 
Later in the morning we heard the “Pip, pip,” 
of the song sparrow, and marked the black spot 
on his breast. Far ahead, across a snow-covered 
meadow, a bird flew dippingly up and down. He had 
laid aside his canary-yellow and black suit, but his 
flight bewrayed the goldfinch. 
