n on strong-feathered, whistling wings. All this
we should miss, did we not seek him out at this season; otherwise the few
weeks would pass and we should notice no change from summer to winter
plumage, and attribute his temporary absence to a whim of wandering on
distant feeding grounds.

Another glance at our goldfinch shows a curious sight. Mottled with spots
and streaks, yellow alternating with greenish, he is an anomaly indeed,
and in fact all of our birds which undergo a radical colour change will
show remarkable combinations during the actual process.

It is during the gray days that the secret to a great problem may be
looked for--the why of migration.

A young duck of the year, whose wings are at last strong and fit, waves
them in ecstasy, vibrating from side to side and end to end of his natal
pond. Then one day we follow his upward glances to where a thin, black
arrow is throbbing southward, so high in the blue sky that the individual
ducks are merged into a single long thread. The young bird, calling again
and again, spurns the water with feet and wings, finally rising in a
slowly ascending arc. Somewhere, miles to the southward, another segment
approaches--touches--merges.

But what of our smaller birds? When the gray days begin to chill we may
watch them hopping among the branches all day in their search for
insects--a keener search now that so many of the more delicate flies and
bugs have fallen chilled to the earth. Toward night the birds become more
restless, feed less, wander aimlessly about, but, as we can tell by their
chirps, remain near us until night has settled down. Then the irresistible
maelstrom of migration instinct draws them upward,--upward,--climbing on
fluttering wings, a mile or even higher into the thin air, and in company
with thousands and tens of thousands they drift southward, sending vague
notes down, but themselves invisible to us, save when now and then a tiny
black mote floats across the face of the moon--an army of feathered mites,
passing from tundra and spruce to bayou and palm.

In the morning, instead of the half-hearted warble of an insect eater,
there sounds in our ears, like the ring of skates on ice, the metallic,
whip-like chirp of a snowbird, confident of his winter's seed feast.

LIVES OF THE LANTERN BEARERS

To all wild creatures fire is an unknown and hated thing, although it is
often so fascinating to them that they will stand transfixed gazing at its