IS IT WINTER? 83 
the same mistake. There is hardly a winter day se- 
vere enough to still his happy song. And whenever 
there come those frequent warm days that cause the 
sap to stir in twigs and hearts alike, you hear the 
joyful outpourings of other birds, those wintering 
here, or those belonging here. It is only January, 
but the red-bird has begun to whistle — indeed, 
there is not a month in the year when some bird is 
not singing a joyous song; and when February comes 
no bird holds back any longer. 
When the ground freezes, or snow comes, the 
birds confidently draw near to the houses, and at 
many of them they find a table always spread. Over 
on her ridge the dear lady from C. beckons you to 
come on tiptoe to the window, and see the hermit 
thrush in the food-box — and there he is, whether 
you can believe such a thing or not. Another bird- 
lover, whose back door opens into beautiful spaces 
bounded by the not too distant form of Tryon 
Mountain, has also persuaded the hermit to conquer 
his shyness, and feed from her stores. 
Birds that, according to the books, do not belong 
in this part of the world, are frequently seen and re- 
corded by eyes always on the watch. Thus are cap- 
tured — in the records — many a stray wight. 
There is one bird, however, here that never comes 
near the houses. One sees him drawing marvelous 
lines in the sky, rising and floating, circling about 
and about in the vast spaces of the air on apparently 
motionless pinions. What is it that thus sustains 
the incredible flight of the buzzard? What is the 
