A DAY IN AN OLD ORCHARD. 135 
in all kinds of weather. This bird has always so de- 
lighted me that I often speak of him, and wish every- 
body to know him for the treasure that he is. 
On the side of a knoll, near the little creek, I found 
the nest of a snow bird, or slate-colored sparrow (Junco 
hyemalis). It was sheltered by a tussock of grass, and 
like all of these nests, was deep and finely finished. 
There were four eggs, and, I judged, nearly ready to 
hatch. This is the fourth nest of the Juncos that I 
have found this season. 
Bobolinks frequently came from the adjoining mea- 
dow, and alighting on the trees or fence rattled off their 
unintelligible though always musical jargon, and then 
sailed or fluttered back to their mates in the grass. The 
charm of the orchard is incomplete without their jingle. 
* Two or three orchard orioles were ‘already here—good 
singers, but seemingly shy and furtive. Their hand- 
some and bolder cousins, the Baltimore orioles, were 
dividing their time between snatches of songs and calls 
to one another. Their songs are not satisfactory. There 
is an unfinished, incompleteness about them; the ear 
expects something more than it usually gets. These 
birds, above all others, seem to possess capabilities 
which they never reach. Masters of loud, clear and 
liquid notes, they seem content to call and scold and 
blurt out parts of strains which they never finish. They 
have learned one thing, however, greatly to their advan- 
tage—that is, placing their swinging nests out of reach of 
most animals of prey, boys not excepted. A half dozen 
of their last year’s nests were still swinging from the 
