that the birds came to the refuse pile every
day for their meals.

Two years later, on the twenty-eighth of June, a friend and I clambered
up Grays Peak, which is several hundred feet higher than Pikes Peak.
It was a long and toilsome climb, winding about the snowbeds of the
mountain side. Sometimes we scaled straight up the acclivity on "all
fours," throwing ourselves down on the rocks at frequent intervals to
rest our aching limbs and fill our lungs with the rarefied air; up and
up and up, until at last, with a long pull and a strong pull, we stood
on the sky-haunting ridge above all the surrounding elevations, looking
down upon the rest of the world, which seemed to be crouching at our
feet.

Long before we reached the summit we were saluted by a new bird
voice--one that had not been heard farther down the mountain. It was a
cordial chirp, which seemed to bid us welcome to the alpine region and
to assure us that there was no risk in climbing to these sky-aspiring
summits. A glance proved that our little salutarian was the
brown-capped rosy finch, which I had not seen since my ascent of Pikes
Peak. Down in the green, copsy valley at the base of the mountain we
had met with the white-crowned sparrows and Wilson and Audubon
warblers; then, as we began to climb the steep shoulder of the
mountain, the American pipits had become our comrades, accompanying us
about half way up the elevation; now all other birds had disappeared
and we entered the arctic precincts of the leucostictes, which, like a
gallant bodyguard, escorted us to the summit, cheering us on with their
friendly chirping. The bailiwicks of the pipits and the rosy finches
slightly overlapped, as did also those of the pipits and the
white-crowned sparrows near the great mountain's base. However, no
pipits ventured to the upper story of this elevated region--at least,
not at the time of our visit, although they may have ascended to the
summit later in the season.

How blithe and cheerful were the pretty leucostictes! Now they darted
fearlessly about in the air over the summit and the gorges; now they
alighted on the wall of the dilapidated old signal station, and anon
hopped and flitted about over the extensive snow beds, picking up
dainties that were evidently to their taste, all the while beguiling
the time with their companionable, half-musical chirping. So far as I
observed, they have no real song. If they have, it is strange that
they did not f