IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND. 



(Ffom an Ornithologist's Year Book*) 



So tiny that a child's small palm can 

 cover its whole body, inaudible at a few 

 paces' distance, invisible till it rises at 

 your very feet, such is our yellow-winged 

 sparrow. Yet he is a marvel; his plu- 

 mage shows an exquisite mimicry of the 

 earth tints, "the upper parts mixed black, 

 rufous-brown, ashy and cream-buff," 

 with a touch of "yellowish olive-green" 

 for the herbage, and here and there an 

 orange or yellow shade, and a dusky 

 whiteness beneath, to give the effect of 

 light. What could be more perfect ? No 

 wonder the wee householders, with a nest 

 of fine-woven grasses, low upon the 

 ground, sits unseen on her "clutch" of 

 wee speckled eggs within reach of your 

 fingers. She knows this well, and will 

 not rise until you are almost upon her re- 

 treat. Nor will she fly far. A fence post, 

 a low shrub will serve as her watchtower 

 until danger is over. 



Our yellow-tinted sparrow has another 

 name, the "Grasshopper Sparrow," from 

 its insect-like tremolo and chirp. Its 

 song is a chord or two and a long trill on 

 the insect letter, z. It is sung, to the eye, 

 with a hearty abandon of joy, the head 

 thrown back and mouth open, in a fine 

 pose of ecstasy; yet, unless all around is 



still, and you listen with attention, not a 

 sound will you hear, so small and fine are 

 the vibrating tones. It is said, in a story 

 of the Highlands, that on certain nights, 

 if a man will but lay a couchant ear close 

 to the breast of the earth, he may hear 

 the fine, fine piping of the fairy tunes 

 played in the underworld. Our bird's 

 song is one of these faint, sweet voices of 

 the earth, like the music that breathes 

 from every clod or leaf when the old 

 world lies dreaming and dozing in a bit 

 of holiday after work is done on a warm, 

 sunny afternoon in autumn, a musical, 

 tremulous, sweet piping everywhere. 



Yet not one of these small creatures is 

 forgotten before its Father. When the 

 frost is in the air, and winter is near, the 

 Divine impulse stirs in its breast, and its 

 little wings will bear it far, far away in 

 the long, mysterious journey over sea to 

 the warm islands of the Atlantic. There 

 it will sing for joy with its fellows in the 

 sun, but when April returns, look well. 

 Is there not a stir in the short grass? 

 And listen. The faint, dream-like thrill 

 throbs again in the throat of the sparrow, 

 and our ground-dweller has returned. It 

 is a parable of God's care for His little 

 ones. Ella F. Mosby. 



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