10 THE AUDUBON (BUsb ie aa 
“Cheer-i-ly, cheer-i-ly,” as usual; bluebirds, too, sapphire in the brilliant, 
cold March sunshine, — fortunately not too cold for the sweet, throaty 
contralto, ““Pu-ri-ty’”’ — a dear little love song, albeit a trifle sad. 
Then suddenly from the nearby fields, a whir of wings, a score of 
brownish birds larger than a robin, with black velvet crescents worn 
proudly and becomingly on beautiful yellow breasts and white tail feathers 
conspicuous in fiying. Our field lark—our meadow lark, of course! Then 
from stumps and old fence, the orchestra of flutes, sweet, plaintive, minor, 
“Where are you, dear? It’s spring of the year!” 
It is interesting to note that two of our earliest birds to return — the 
bluebird and meadowlark — possess sad song's with which to greet the 
spring; one over cheery friend, the robin, gives the right balance, always 
in major key. 
When in Cuba before Christmas I saw meadowlarks much like our 
northern ones, with the same rude trick that seems to run in the family 
(as traits sometimes do) of turning their backs upon me. We forgive the 
rudeness because of their beauty; we forgive the sadness of song because 
of its exquisite sweetness; we love to have them inquire so concernedly, 
“Where are you, dear?” then thrill and comfort us by declaring clearly 
and unmistakably that it’s “Spring of the year.” 
BIRD-QUESTING IN DUNDONALD LANE 
Blue sky; great cloud masses hanging low, reminding one of England; 
the distant gentle hills of Beverly wearing veils of blue, of a lower value 
than the sky. 
In spite of a biting March wind we were off on a quest for our tawny 
little brother of the air, the fox sparrow, to be expected about this date. 
Sandwiches and hot coffee in the car in Dundonald Lane; then with 
opera glass slung over shoulder we started questing, to discover what might 
be our share in the bird joys of March, hoping for the fox sparrow. 
Knowing that our friends are not fond of singing in a keen wind, we spied 
a little thickety copse to the westward. Settling ourselves comfortably 
against a big tree trunk for semi-shelter, we waited. 
Flocks of robins lent happy, ruddy color to bare branches and fields. 
Flocks of juncos, too, lingering a little longer before going to the Northland 
to nest; the air was filled with their curious “Kiss-ing’’ note. 
Suddenly, overhead, a high-pitched, rapidly repeated ‘Killy-killy-willy,” 
a few quick beats of the wing, a graceful short sail; clear-cut wings 
silouetted against the sky, then settled on a nearby oak; a lovely group of 
five little sparrow hawks (often called Killy hawk), quite the Beau Brum- 
mels of the tribe. Dressed in a suit of bright rusty brown, relieved by a 
vest of creamy buff, a cap of slatey blue, the costume accented in a very 
chic way by touches of black. 
Then from a bush came “Sweet-sweet-sweet! very merry cheer”; from 
another bush, an answering merry cheer. It was not our fox sparrow, but 
a cousin of his, the Dearest of the family, whom to know is to love. 
Dressed like a Quaker is he, but sporting a little black locket on gray 
