OLD FRIENDS IN NEW PLACES 



them to come mider my window by a plentiful 

 sprinkling of finely cracked com and bird-seed. 

 They were always very shy, but they soon learned 

 to associate me with the free lunch, so that, very 

 soon after my appearance, — about nine o'clock in 

 the morning, — they would begin to gather from the 

 near-by coverts, one to two dozen white-throats, 

 with four or five song sparrows, and now and then 

 a female chewink. The chewinks remain there the 

 year round, but the song sparrows and the white- 

 throats, like myself, were only there for a season. 



By easy stages from one covert to another, trav- 

 eling mostly at night, the birds were soon to begin 

 the return journey northward. I think the same 

 birds lingered with me day after day, though one 

 cannot be sure in such a matter. The individual 

 units in a stream of slowly passing birds of the same 

 species do not differ from one another in appear- 

 ance any more than do the separate ripples in a 

 stream of flowing water. Outside of man's influ- 

 ence, the individuals of a species of wild creatures 

 or wild flowers do not seem to differ from one an- 

 other by as much as one hair or one feather or one 

 petal. They are like coin stamped with the same die, 

 and the wonder of it is that each and all, among the 

 birds, at least, seem like new coin — not one blurred 

 or imperfect impression. This fact always strikes 

 one in gazing upon a flock of wild birds of any kind 

 in the fall or in the spring. The wear and tear of life 

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