2 PHE? A UD U BO'N (BU DylsiheieieN 
meant birds in the traps and strenuous days for me. Spring in mid-winter 
started the resident song sparrows to singing, and was a precious oppor- 
tunity to learn which of my adult color-banded birds were still alive and 
which new ones were taking up territory. If winter came again in March, 
birds flocked to the traps once more and I had to make the most of the 
occasion. 
In real winter song sparrows sit puffed out against the cold, difficult 
to see in the brown weeds and with their bands concealed by feathers. On 
the rare mornings when Interpont was turned into fairy-land by a covering 
of hoar-frost, then my birds stood out, brown spots against the silver. 
Despite low temperatures, tree sparrows might be heard singing charmingly 
as they breakfasted on weed seeds. Song sparrows collected into temporary 
flocks, casual, leaderless groups. Occasionally ducks visited the Olentangy— 
shovellers and black ducks, and once three golden-eyes that rose rapidly on 
whistling wings, circled back and settled down again in plain view. 
My companion on these winter walks was my little daughter’s handsome 
shepherd, Rex. When Dr. Erwin Streseman of Berlin visited Interpont 
in 1936 he said, ‘“Rex is a wonderful dog. He looks just like a fox.” Rex 
was notable for his sweet and happy disposition, but not, I regret to confess, 
for his I.Q. I cannot say that he was any great help on these expeditions: 
when I strewed grain seeds and dry bread in chosen spots, he seemed to 
think it a little joke on my part to feed him this queer food in these odd 
places, and when I tried to camouflage the traps from meddlesome passersby 
with sticks and weed stalks, he construed it as an invitation to snatch the 
stuff and be off with it. Protests made no impression; I was forced to try 
and deceive him and to get him absorbed in dashing off with a branch just 
before we reached the trapping centers. Happily he had not the vaguest 
notion of hunting anything, so he never disturbed the birds in the traps. 
Although he was something of a trial at times, yet his high spirits shortened 
for me the way that often grew weary and his foolish actions were more 
than offset by his grace, his beauty and his unfailing joy in life. 
Whatever the weather, Rex and I started out early each morning to 
distribute food in order not to disappoint the little birds. If the ground 
was bare, one trip was enough and I would spend the rest of the morning 
in my study. But if there was snow it was different. Before dawn the 
traps had to be in place; there would be a little breathing spell at home 
and then out we would go again, the gathering cage under my arm. Often 
the traps would be stationed beyond the Fourth Dike, a third of a mile 
from home, as well as at places in between, each contrivance usually being 
placed with the design of capturing one or two special birds. 
Hope would mount high as I neared each hidden trap. Usually nothing 
but emptiness would await me. Occasionally I could gently shoo the bird 
I wanted towards the trap and sometimes he kindly cooperated. But most 
trips were without reward. As I trudged home through the snow, hungry 
and cold, I sometimes thought of a remarkable personage which one of my 
children used to tell of — “Sweet Cherry.” ‘Feet Cherry,’ Barbara would 
say, “do f’ap her coat and f’y.”” I wished I could flap my coat and fly home. 
Sometimes, however, oh joy, there would be movement in the trap, a 
