50 ON THE BIRDS' HIGHWAY 



a fox sparrow, I heard above my head 

 from the lower limbs of an overhanging 

 beech tree a loud ringing song, followed 

 by a shower of bird epithets. This burst 

 of sound proceeded from two Carolina 

 wrens who, with perpendicular tails and 

 bowing heads, were bouncing about above 

 me. They had all the bearing of the 

 wren I had left down the creek and of the 

 house and marsh wrens I am on such good 

 terms with here, but they were something 

 more of an opera-glass and decidedly 

 more, of an ear-full. 



Can winter still have Massachusetts 

 within its grasp ? I said to myself on the 

 morning of February 1 8th, when I left the 

 cars at Chevy Chase, Maryland, and set 

 out over the rolling hills, where from every 

 side I was greeted by the voices of many 

 song sparrows. The thought had hardly 

 crossed my mind when the soft, sweet 

 notes of a bluebird fell like a benediction 

 on my ears. No, not of one bluebird, but 

 of fifty, for a flock were coming toward 

 me out of the gray sky, and not until 

 they had faded in the distance and the last 

 note had died from my ears did I cease to 

 strain my eyes toward the blessed country 



