174 DEPARTING SUMMER VISITORS 



of the Birch and Pine, but the Thistle seems their 

 favourite. The Dandelion heads that still retain 

 their seeds are eagerly torn open. In vacant fields, 

 where the picturesque, blue rosette of the Chicory 

 has been seen throughout the summer, they assemble 

 in small flocks to gather the harvest. There they 

 might easily be mistaken for English Sparrows, so 

 quiet is their colouring. It seems unreal to identify 

 that little industrious fellow, tearing out the dry seeds 

 of the Chicory, with the brilliant songster, with black 

 cap and wings and bright yellow jacket, perching on 

 the Thistle heads in early summer. But draw near, and 

 the whispered conversation of the little flock will 

 reveal their identity. When startled they display 

 the hurry and bustle of the city almost as eagerly 

 as the Sparrows. But once in the upper air they 

 assume their happy, undulating flight, fluttering up 

 and gliding down on fanciful waves of atmosphere. 

 They are indolent migrants, and do not hurry away, 

 even at the approach of winter. In fact, they are 

 indolent about all the important affairs of life, for 

 they do not undertake their domestic duties till late 

 in summer, when the more serious visitors have their 

 fledglings out in the world. And that seems to be their 

 way of solving the problem of perpetual happiness. 

 Their flight is the abandonment of joy. Up and down 

 they go, closing their wings after every spasmodic 

 flutter and calling out in the exuberance of delight. 



