had in the following extract, which I take from my diary under
date of February 4th:--

"Made a long excursion through the woods and over the hills. Went
directly north from the Capitol for about three miles. The ground bare
and the day cold and sharp. In the suburbs, among the scattered Irish
and negro shanties, came suddenly upon a flock of birds, feeding about
like our northern snow buntings. Every now and then they uttered a
piping, disconsolate note, as if they had a very sorry time of it.
They proved to be shore larks, the first I had ever seen. They had the
walk characteristic of all larks; were a little larger than the
sparrow; had a black spot on the breast, with much white on the under
parts of their bodies. As I approached them the nearer ones paused,
and, half squatting, eyed me suspiciously. Presently, at a movement of
my arm, away they went, flying exactly like the snow bunting, and
showing nearly as much white." (I have since discovered that the shore
lark is a regular visitant here in February and March, when large
quantities of them are shot or trapped, and exposed for sale in the
market. During a heavy snow I have seen numbers of them feeding upon
the seeds of various weedy growths in a large market-garden well into
town.) "Pressing on, the walk became exhilarating. Followed a little
brook, the eastern branch of the Tiber, lined with bushes and a rank
growth of green-brier. Sparrows started out here and there, and flew
across the little bends and points. Among some pines just beyond the
boundary, saw a number of American goldfinches, in their gray winter
dress, pecking the pinecones. A golden-crowned kinglet was there also,
a little tuft of gray feathers, hopping about as restless as a spirit.
Had the old pine-trees food delicate enough for him also? Farther on,
in some low open woods, saw many sparrows,--the fox, white-throated,
white-crowned, the Canada, the song, the swamp,--all herding together
along the warm and sheltered borders. To my surprise, saw a chewink
also, and the yellow-rumped warbler. The purple finch was there
likewise, and the Carolina wren and brown creeper. In the higher,
colder woods not a bird was to be seen. Returning, near sunset, across
the eastern slope of a hill which overlooked the city, was delighted
to see a number of grass finches or vesper sparrows,--birds which
will be forever associated in my mind with my father's sheep pastures.
They ran before me, now flitting a p