WHERE FEBRUARY IS SPRING 51 



to which they were carrying tidings of 

 spring. I have not seen such a flock since 

 the direful Southern blizzard of 1895. 

 Hope filled me for the future generations 

 of bluebirds. 



From the opposite crest of a hill the 

 whistle of wings again drew my attention 

 to earth. A flock of mourn- 

 ing doves were disappearing 

 with wonderful rapidity. 

 They regained their feeding 

 ground while I tramped over 

 other hills, for I flushed 

 them again on my return. 

 In the valleys between the hills, where 

 generally a brook flowed among a tangle 

 of blackberry and scrub, I met another 

 pair of cardinals, a tufted tit, hundreds 

 of song and tree sparrows, besides a single 

 fox sparrow. Crows, the greater percent- 

 age fish crows, were always in sight, but 

 my new and rather uncouth friends of the 

 morning, — for they came near enough to 

 be called friends, — I saw only occasion- 

 ally. The first was a turkey buzzard, — 

 for no particular reason so far as I can 

 see, a rare bird in southern New England, 

 — who sat perched on a dead limb and 

 as I approached stretched his wings above 



