crowded out for once: occasionally one or 
two appeared, but did not remain long. I 
notice now (April 18) that the numbers are 
less, they seem more timid. One day a fox 
sparrow remained on the dining-room win¬ 
dow-sill eating seed I had placed there .| 
while I sat at table close to the window." 
Since Monday night the weather has 
offered no great temptation to birds to 
come north, and yet it is evident that 
they are pushing slowly forward. A 
friend in Lexington saw the first black 
and white creeper and the first white- 
throated sparrows on April 26, and on 
April 27, in spite of the continued cold 
weather, I found a water thrush, a bird 
which hardly ever arrives before 'the 
first of May. 
Between Concord avenue and Fresh 
Pond there is a swampy jungle about an 
acre in extent, before which has stood 
i for many years a sign warning people 
that it is dangerous to enter. Ever since 
I saw the sign I have wanted to pene¬ 
trate the thicket, not that I particularly 
lust after danger, but because, like Blue¬ 
beard’s wife, I want to explore any cham¬ 
ber that is always kept locked. Moreover, 
nearly every time that I pass the spot, 
a pheasant drows in the middle of the 
thicket. Last week I came upon him and 
his wives feeding just outside. As I ap¬ 
proached he drew himself up to his full 
height, looking very magnificent. On the 
side of his head there was a deep red 
patch which I had never -seen before, and 
his long silver tail was held out grandly 
' like a peacock’s. Meanwhile his two 
brown partners were crouching and run¬ 
ning in some shrubbery, heading for the 
thicket. I was now n< 6 t. more than fifteen 
yards away, and as I advanced, they 
all flew, the females disappearing into 
the jungle. The male, to my surprise, 
sailed off over the lawn, in full view, 
wings - curved stiffly and his long tail 
trailing behind. Then he landed in plain 
sight on the lawn, and after a moment 
“clapped his silver wings” and crowed, 
like a gallant cavalier defying the 
enemy. 
1 Saturday, April 27, I put -on rubber 
boots and invaded his fastness. As I 
was about to enter he crowed from the 
middle of the thicket and I had high 
hopes of finding the nest. The little 
swamp, protected from the chill cast 
wind by its trees, had almost the moist 
warmth of summer. The red maples were 
in full flower, and had attracted swarms 
of tiny insects. These in turn fell vic¬ 
tims to yellow-rumped and yellow-palm 
warblers, and both species were iu full, 
if rather feeble, song. 
I searched every rod of the swamp, 
even forcing my way into raspberry and 
blackberry tangles. A ditch surrounded I 
the thicket and from its margin I star- j 
tied -dozens of rusty blackbirds, which, ! 
flying tef the* border of the swamp, pro¬ 
tested in their gurgling fashion as long 
as I stayed. There had evidently been a 
heavy flight of Savannah sparrows, which 
were now feeding in the short grass 
about the edges of the jungle. They. 
were trying their voices, which -were 
still extremely harsh and unmusical. 
Through the middle of the thicket ran 
another ditch, and here, daintily pick¬ 
ing his way, and now and then 'stopping 
to sing, was the water thrush, about 
five days ahead of time. 
I spent in all about three-quarters of 
an hour beating the jungle backward and 
forward, and searching for the pheasants 
or their nest. Not a sound nor a glimpse 
I betrayed their presence. Nor could I 
i discover anything In the place sugges¬ 
tive of danger, unless it were a sturdy 
clump of poison sumach bushes. When I 
had given up the search, and was put¬ 
ting on m 3 - shoes, the pheasant crowed 
from the middle of the thicket! 
An ornithologist is naturally of a pry¬ 
ing disposition, and readily becomes an 
habitual trespasser. The other day the 
pursuit of a suspicious-looking sparrow 
led me into a field overlooking a man's 
backyard and garden. While waiting for 
my bird to reappear, I could not help ob¬ 
serving the man at his gardening. He 
was apparently making a flower bed, for 
he had-a spade and a rake, which he oc¬ 
casionally used, but not very vigorously 
or continuously. Twice he stopped to refill 
or relight his pipe. His dog, too, was with 
him, and needed considerable attention, 
of a kind which seemed to be gratifying 
both to him and to the man. From time 
to time he stopped to lean over the 
fence, apparently watching the redden¬ 
ing maples, or listening to the meadow 
lark on the other side of the field. I 
was too far away to see what he was 
planning to raise In the bed, but I know 
that he is getting one -crop at any rate, 
contentment. 
As I was conning home through the 
cedars, I saw a fox. Crows were scold¬ 
ing in the neighboring field, and as I 
came Into an opening, there was the fox, 
running carelessly beside a stone wall, in 
no great haste and apparently unaware 
of my presence. He ran the whole length 
of the field, and across a little lane; the 
crows kept above him, and by their flight 
I could follow his course into another 
grove of -cedars. 
The grove Into which the fox disap¬ 
peared is only about three miles from 
Memorial Hall, and 'in sight of the State 
House. It is a tribute to Reynard’s sa¬ 
gacity that he still Maintains himself at 
the very edge of greater Boston. It is 
not because he is unmolested, for I not 
Infrequently come upon a keen fox- 
hunter, with his pack of hounds, stroll¬ 
ing of a Sunday through these very ce¬ 
dars. If his d-ogs start a fox and run him 
to earth somewhere, he gets up a hunt 
among his friends; each stations himself 
with a gun at some place where the fox 
is likely to cross the open, and now and 
then they get a shot or even the fox him¬ 
self. 
The owner of the pack is an Irish¬ 
man, of about sixty, but straight and 
ruddy as if he had spent his life in the 
open air. Apparently the chase is what 
gives him pleasure, not the dead fox. 
While I was with him, one of the old 
dogs found a “smell," as he put it, and 
in a moment the whole pack of half a 
dozen were nosing eagerly about, their 
tails -stiffly erect and waving with ex¬ 
citement. “If it were only break ’o day 
