the most curious style of bird minstrelsy with which I am
acquainted. In comparison the chippie's trill sounds loud and clear
and bell-like, with a distinctly melodious quality of tone. The song
of the little clay-colored sparrow is also marked by a kind of drawl,
giving one the impression that the bird is just a little too lazy to
exert himself; yet when you get him in the field of your glass and see
him throw back his head, expand his throat and chest, and open his
mandibles as wide as he can, you quickly decide that he is not the
apathetic creature his desultory song would lead you to infer. It
really is laughable, and almost pathetic, too, to note how much energy
he expends in the production of his poor little aria.

Indeed, not in the least sluggish is the blood flowing in the veins of
_Spizella pallida_, for he is a vivacious little body, flitting about
actively in the hedges and bushes, and sometimes mounting into the
trees, chanting his little alto strain all the while, as if his life
depended upon it. He is one of the comparatively few birds who is
lavish of his song in migration.

Unlike the familiar chippie, he does not usually find a perch in plain
sight, from which to rehearse his song, but keeps himself well hidden
in the bushes or trees, darting into a hiding place as soon as he
thinks himself discovered. The shy little imp prefers to put a screen
of foliage or twigs between himself and the observer. Might his motto
be, "Little birds should be heard and not seen"? I had quite a time
making sure of him, but, as a pleasant compensation, when his identity
was once settled, I could not well have mistaken him for another
species, for he is a bird of real distinction.

My study of the clay-colored sparrows was restricted to their habits in
migration, at which time they move about in more or less compact little
flocks, gathering seeds and chanting their monotonous trills. While I
first found these sparrows near Peabody, they were also fairly common,
a few days later, in northeastern Kansas, about a mile back from the
Missouri River, where their low alto strains formed a kind of gray
background for the high-pitched trills of the Harris sparrows and the
loud pipings of the cardinals. Quaint as our little contralto's solos
are, they have a distinct fascination for me, and now that I no longer
live in the Sunflower state, I miss them sorely when the springtime
comes.

These sparrows do not, I believe,