STRAY 
Wild Bird Twifte'r 
SBEAK. 
Amidst Bare 
Elm Branches. 
The Langaaie aiad the Chirps of 
Feathered Songsters. 
All winter the walk down the village 
street has been a pretty dull affair. But 
this afternoon something did happen, 
though it wasn’t a runaway or anything of 
that sort. Far ahead I heard from some- 
where among the elm branches the loud, 
persistent twitter of some wild bird. I 
thought straightaway of the goldfinch, but 
it wasn’t quite his voice. On I hurried, 
never glancing from the trees, lest my bird 
escape. I found him easily. The constant 
twittering had proved a useful guide. The 
bird looked exactly os large as a robin, but 
was grayicsh. A butcher-bird, appearing 
small for some reason? No — a deep notch 
in a short tail. The butcher-bird’s is full 
and long. 
Then it flashed upon me that the north- 
ern grosbeaks had come again, and that 
this was a stray one, piping for his van- 
ished flock. He was not high up, and was 
on the sunny side of the maple, where I 
watched him long— -a sort of big, clumsy 
goldfinch in winter plumage, with stubby 
beak. He bore the restless air of a stranger 
and his. loud, unceasing twitter had a 
burden of homesickness in it. 
“I wonder where I am now?” he seemed 
to be saying. “What if I should never find 
the rest of my family again? Could I ever 
get back to my northern forests alone? 
I don’t like this country at all. It’s far 
too civilized for me.” So this young male 
grosbeak explained. 
I had a long time to watch him and 
listen to the wild, rich voice. And when he 
flew, he went wi/th a dash, rising and 
falling, till he was lost, a mote, in the hazy 
light of the afternoon sky. 
So the pine grosbeak not only wears the 
winter garb of our goldfinch, but flies like 
him! But Imitator though he be — what a 
bracing effect he 'has on the dull, winter- 
worn spirit! On wings the mind flies after 
him to the unknown scenes he will visit 
in his wanderings far from home. 
Few grosbeaks were seen last winter, or 
the winter before, but everybody has heard 
of the famous flight of them during the 
winter of ’92-’93. Not since 16 years had 
the like been. seen. Early in January, ’93, 
they came down in countless numbers and 
staid the winter out. The weather was 
moderate then as now. 
Only a week ago, a party of bird-lovers, 
comparing notes, had remarked the ab- 
sence of the grosbeaks. Now they are with 
us. Whether the great flight of ’93 will 
be repeated remains to be seen. I found 
I was not the first to hail their appearance 
in Concord. The first friend I met said 
he had watched quite a flock of them early 
on Sunday morning, the 26th. Besides the 
dull, olive females, or young males, was 
one mature male, in splendid crimson plu- 
mage. 
A village lad with a sharp eye for birds 
had seen three within the week. I long to 
come upon the grosbeaks close at hand, to 
see if the innocent creatures will allow 
themselves to be handled; for a not un- 
common assertion to this effect is current 
among ornithologists. 
Winter birds have been sadly neglected 
by students. We know who the winter 
birds are. but we haven’t much idea how 
they spend their time— days and nlgnts 
of all sorts, thaw, frost, wind, storm and 
zero weather.' For somwhere they are 
through it 'all. The hardy, patient Thoreau, 
breasting the New England winter as no 
one did before, or has since, for mere 
love of nature, should have told us more. 
On those long miles he travelled through 
deep snow, “to keep his tryst with a favor- 
ite yellow birch or some friend among the 
pines,” he saw plenty of jays, chickadees, 
downy woodpeckers, and nutches. But so 
do we, who belong to the prudent class 
he scorned— we who keep to the highway, 
where the walking .is not reasonably com- 
fortable afield. 
Here is an observation about some winter 
birds, which has been rather late in com- 
ing to me, and may have some value for 
those who are trying to get acquainted 
with our birds. None of the bird-books, 
so far as I know, presents strongly enough 
this information, e. g.: 
If in winter you see a flock of birds- 
you take for goldfinches, look out. They 
may be something else. 'That sweet- voiced 
, ‘E ; ee?” while they feeding and 
perching, or “Sweet-eet itee,” as they 
go, ; in swinging, erratic fight, are not un- 
mistakable. Even the pine grosbeak 
knows those tricks of voice and flight, yet 
he. is so large that of course he will never 
be taken for a goldfinch, if seen. 
But now, a trifle later in the winter, 
P^hnps, when the little birch-seeds scale 
off from their catkins at last and shower 
down upon the snow, if the flock you see 
is feeding on these, and is very large, prob- 
ably all of these birds, or most of them, 
are not goldfinches, but red pollinnets. 
Males in good light, near to, will show 
reddish feathers pretty plainly, but others 
a little distance off will pass for gold- 
finches. 
Goldfinches, I have often noticed, sel- 
dom at this time of year at least, go in 
flocks of more than six. This red-poll-gold- 
finch study is one in which you can’t 
easily name all your birds without the gun. 
But no matter. Keep on trying. No matter 
how great the similarity in voices, the ear 
will triumph if you give it a chance. 
Again, your supposed goldfinches may be 
feeding among pines. A sight of them 
through the opera-glass will usually settle 
the question. If they are pine siskins 
(finches), they will be rather slimmer than 
goldfinches and will lack the clear, light 
olive effect, being mottled. 
In a walk past Walden Pond to Lincoln 
the other day the number of tree sparrows 
and slate-colored snow birds, or juncos, 
was remarkable. “Tseet!” “Tseet!” and 
“Chick-achit!” ‘‘Chickachit !” — and one was 
kept always busy .to see where the russett 
or the drab-and-white finch flitted, now 
appearing, now hidden among the scrub 
oak and birch or catkined hazel of the road- 
side. The snow-birds were wild and liked 
heedlessly pecked in the middle of the road, 
heedlessly pcked in the middle of the road| 
content to leave on a perilously near ap- 
proach. 
Sunset came, cold and clear, while the 
big red lamps of Mars showed early in 
the east, the new moon over a ridge, blue- 
shadowed against the yellow west. All 
along the roadway 'the delicate birches rise 
in wintery beauty. A meadow brook catches 
the last glow. The bushes are snug down 
there in its hollow. So the tree-sparrows 
think, and they go “Tseep! tseep!” peeping 
their satisfaction as they troop in from all 
sides. Sound your chilly chirp. Some day 
not far off the summer song sparrow will 
brood down there amid the warmth and 
leafinesa— . ** LirJitiKi 
Kate Try on. 
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