The Song Sparrows 



would bring glad tears to the eyes of any 

 American wandering amid tropic delights. 

 Disregarding for the nonce those subtle and 

 fleeting characters of difference which oblige 

 us in California to speak of the Song Spar- 

 rows, let us fix our attention upon the bird 

 itself, the Song Sparrow. For where is the 

 bird-lover whose face does not unconsciously 

 relax, or whose heart does not turn tender 



at the mere 

 mention of 

 this magic 

 name, Song 

 Sparrow ! He 

 is the poet of 

 common day. 

 He is the 

 familiar of 

 childhood ; for 

 knowledge of 

 him comes at 

 a time of life 

 when one can 

 poke about 

 without rebuke in little cool dingles, or, 

 perchance, accompany recreant water- 

 courses in their perilous journeys to the sea. 

 Familiar he surely is to most of us 

 even though his close dependence upon 

 water and cover prevents reckless flights in 

 the open, after the manner of Linnets and 

 Goldfinches, or the special consolation of brickbats affected by Passer 

 domesticus. Although his coat is normally striped like the weedy mazes, or 

 like the pattern of light on the cattails, which he oftenest inhabits, it bears 

 eloquent testimony elsewhere to the power of sun or shade. On the burn- 

 ing beaches of the Salton Sink our Song Sparrow is bleached to the color 

 of a pale cinder, — ash with a few streaks of ochre. In the redwood forests 

 of Mendocino the same bird looks like a wood-brown fragment of a 

 mouldering log, streaked or blackened by rain. Everywhere he is in har- 

 mony with nature, as if he knew her secrets and were admitted to her 

 counsels. 



Water loving, as a species, throughout their American range, the 



338 



Taken in Pasadena 

 Photo by Donald R. Dickey 



SONG SPARROW ON 

 ROSE BUSH 



