CHAPTER V. 



A JANUARY THAW. 



IT is the last of January, 1880. We have had a complete 

 thaw; the frost is about out of the ground; the sunny days 

 would do credit to the last of March. Of course, ornitholo- 

 gists are on the lookout such days as these, so I must to 

 the fields and to the woods. 



THE SNOW-BIRD. 



As I spring over a pasture fence I startle a flock of Snow- 

 birds {^Junco hyemalis) from among the withered golden- rods 

 of last year. Tse-tse-tse-tse-tse, and they leave en masse for the 

 brush-heap yonder. Both sight and sound give me clue to 

 them at once, for they are common here from October till 

 May. The great body of them, however, pass south- 

 ward in autumn and northward in spi'ing, it being one of 

 the most abundant birds in the migrations. 



Who does not love the Snow-bird? Not for its gay 

 apparel, however, for it is not only plain, but even sombre in 

 dress. The Mourning Sparrow, it might be called. A fine 

 male is almost as dark as crape, the pure white of his bil', 

 feet and legs, lower breast and under parts and feathers on 

 either side of his tail, being a most delicate set-off. The 

 female, when lightest, has the dark parts, a half mourning 

 gray, or dark drab. How strikingly in harmony is this little 

 bird with the gloom of autumn, the bleak days of winter, 

 or the chilly winds and unclad fields of early spring! 



