osition on the sill of a cellar window, and promising to call on my way
back, when, if she were no better, I would take her home with me, and
give her a warm room and good nursing. When I returned, however, she was
nowhere to be found. Her mate, I regret to say, both on his own account
and for the sake of the story, had taken wing and disappeared the moment
I entered the yard. Possibly he came back and encouraged her to fly off
with him; or perhaps some cat made a Sunday breakfast of her. The truth
will never be known; our vigilant city police take no cognizance of
tragedies so humble.

For several years a few song sparrows--a pair or two, at least--have
wintered in a piece of ground just beyond the junction of Beacon street
and Brookline Avenue. I have grown accustomed to listen for their
_tseep_ as I go by the spot, and occasionally I catch sight of one of
them perched upon a weed, or diving under the plank sidewalk. It would
be a pleasure to know the history of the colony: how it started; whether
the birds are the same year after year, as I suppose to be the case; and
why this particular site was selected. The lot is small, with no woods
or bushy thicket near, while it has buildings in one corner, and is
bounded on its three sides by the streets and the railway; but it is
full of a rank growth of weeds, especially a sturdy species of aster and
the evergreen golden-rod, and I suspect that the plank walk, which on
one side is raised some distance from the ground, is found serviceable
for shelter in severe weather, as it is certainly made to take the place
of shrubbery for purposes of concealment.

Fortunately, birds, even those of the same species, are not all exactly
alike in their tastes and manner of life. So, while by far the greater
part of our song sparrows leave us in the fall, there are always some
who prefer to stay. They have strong local attachments, perhaps; or they
dread the fatigue and peril of the journey; or they were once
incapacitated for flight when their companions went away, and, having
found a Northern winter not so unendurable as they had expected, have
since done from choice what at first they did of necessity. Whatever
their reasons,--and we cannot be presumed to have guessed half of
them,--at all events a goodly number of song sparrows do winter in
Massachusetts, where they open the musical season before the first of
the migrants make their appearance. I doubt, however, whether many of
them c