294 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



Let me recapitulate. An ordinary half-mile stroll be- 

 yond the city limits may enable you to see forty or more 

 species of birds — possibly fifty. Fully one-half of them 

 will be in flocks. Many will cluster in the thick-set ce- 

 dars ; others will be scattered over the weedy fields. 

 Hundreds delight to lurk in the angles of a zigzag fence ; 

 others come boldly to the front and bid you welcome. 



Divide these many winter birds in another manner, 

 and we shall find that fully one-half may claim to be 

 songsters ; and better than all else, none are lazy, moping 

 noodles, as are so many summer birds when the noon- 

 tide heat is tropical, but, on the contrary, every feather 

 of them is awake, alive, ready for fight or fun, and bub- 

 bling over with melody or loquacity. 



Do you really think, then, a January jubilee a myth ? 

 The midwinter morning I was last here, the temperature 

 was as low as ten, and never above twenty, degrees — that 

 is, take the whole range of the fields and woods — but 

 then scattered about were warmer, sheltered nooks, and 

 such are the concert-halls affected by our winter song- 

 sters. 



One doesn't buy a ticket for the roof when he goes to 

 the opera. Why look for birds, then, on the north side 

 of a hill ? I found them yesterday on a sunny slope, and 

 tarrying a bit I heard them. 



The clear call of the crested tit opened the concert. 

 The abundant tree-sparrows twittered ; kinglets trilled 

 a merry roundelay ; snow-birds chirped ; a cardinal per- 

 formed an inimitable solo ; and to all the downy wood- 

 pecker was alike attentive, and drummed a tuneful ac- 

 companiment on the most resonant tree in all the woods. 



