nce below
Georgetown brought us into another valley, whose green meadows and
cultivated fields lay a little lower, perhaps a couple hundred feet,
than the valley from which we had come. Here we found many Brewer's
blackbirds, of which there were very few in the vicinity of Georgetown.
They were feeding their young, some of which had already left the nest.
No red-winged blackbirds had been seen in the Georgetown valley, while
here there was a large colony of them, many carrying food to the
bantlings in grass and bush. Otherwise there was little difference
between the avi-fauna of the two valleys.

One morning I climbed the steep mountain just above Georgetown, the one
that forms the divide between the two branches of Clear Creek. A western
chipping sparrow sat trilling on the top of a small pine, as unafraid as
the chippie that rings his silvery peals about your dooryard in the
East; nor could I distinguish any difference between the minstrelsy of
this westerner and his well-known cousin of Ohio. He dexterously caught
an insect on the wing, having learned that trick, perhaps, from his
neighbor, the little western flycatcher, which also lived on the slope.
Hermit thrushes, Audubon's warblers, and warbling vireos dwelt on the
lower part of the acclivity. When I climbed far up the steep wall,
scarcely able to cling to its gravelly surface, I found very few birds;
only a flycatcher and an Audubon's warbler, while below me the hermit
thrushes were chanting a sacred oratorio in the pine woods.

On another day the train bore us around the famous "Loop" to Silver
Plume. In the beautiful pine grove at the terminus of the railway there
were many birds--siskins, chipping sparrows, western robins and
ruby-crowned kinglets; and they were making the place vocal with melody,
until I began to inspect them with my glass, when they suddenly lapsed
into a silence that was as trying as it was profound. By and by,
discretion having had her perfect work, they metaphorically came out of
their shells and permitted an inspection. Above the railway I saw one of
the few birds of my entire Rocky Mountain outing that I was unable to
identify. That little feathered Sphinx--what could he have been? To
quote from my note-book, "His song, as he sits quietly on a twig in a
pine tree, is a rich gurgling trill, slightly like that of a house-wren,
but fuller and more melodious, with an air about it that makes me feel
almost like writing a poem. The bird is