ally on that of hickory or maple. They wallow amid the dust,
working it over and over, and searching it like diamond-hunters, and
after a time their baskets are filled with the precious flour, which
is probably only a certain part of the wood, doubtless the soft,
nutritious inner bark.

In fact, all signs and phases of life in the early season are very
capricious, and are earlier or later just as some local or exceptional
circumstance favors or hinders. It is only such birds as arrive after
about the 20th of April that are at all "punctual" according to the
almanac. I have never known the arrival of the barn swallow to vary
much from that date in this latitude, no matter how early or late the
season might be. Another punctual bird is the yellow redpoll warbler,
the first of his class that appears. Year after year, between the 20th
and the 25th, I am sure to see this little bird about my place for a
day or two only, now on the ground, now on the fences, now on the
small trees and shrubs, and closely examining the buds or just-opening
leaves of the apple-trees. He is a small olive-colored bird, with a
dark-red or maroon-colored patch on the top of his head. His ordinary
note is a smart "chirp." His movements are very characteristic,
especially that vertical, oscillating movement of the hind part of his
body, like that of the wagtails. There are many birds that do not come
here till May, be the season never so early. The spring of 1878 was
very forward, and on the 27th of April I made this entry in my
notebook: "In nature it is the middle of May, and, judging from
vegetation alone, one would expect to find many of the later birds, as
the oriole, the wood thrush, the kingbird, the catbird, the tanager,
the indigo-bird, the vireos, and many of the warblers, but they have
not arrived. The May birds, it seems, will not come in April, no
matter how the season favors."

Some birds passing north in the spring are provokingly silent. Every
April I see the hermit thrush hopping about the woods, and in case of
a sudden snow-storm seeking shelter about the outbuildings; but I
never hear even a fragment of his wild, silvery strain. The
white-crowned sparrow also passes in silence. I see the bird for a few
days about the same date each year, but he will not reveal to me his
song. On the other hand, his congener, the white-throated sparrow, is
decidedly musical in passing, both spring and fall. His sweet,
wavering whistle is at times