A Citizen of North America, nesting from the Gulf of Mexico to Canada, wintering in the Southern States and beyond.

A Weed Warrior and a member of the Tree Trappers and Ground Gleaners in nesting-time.

THE SLATE-COLORED JUNCO

(THE SNOWBIRD)

“Here we have a northern winter bird—­or, at least, one that we associate with winter and call the Snowbird; for everybody sees him on his autumn and winter travels, and knows his Sparrow-like call-note, while his summer home is so far north or so high on mountains that few visit him in the tangled woodlands where he sings a pretty trilling song to his mate.

[Illustration:  Slate-Colored Junco.]

“When I was a boy here at the Farm, these white-vested Juncos were my winter pets.  A flock was always sure to come in October and stay until the last of April, or even into May if the season was cold.  One winter, when the snow came at Thanksgiving and did not leave the ground until March, the birds had a hard time of it, I can tell you.  The Robins and Bluebirds soon grew discouraged, and left one by one.  The Chickadees retreated to the shelter of some hemlock woods, and I thought the Winter Wrens were frozen into the woodpile, for I did not see any for weeks.  The only cannibal birds that seemed to be about were a pair of Cat Owls that spent most of the time in our hay-barn, where they paid for their lodgings by catching rats and mice.

“But my flock of Juncos were determined to brave all weathers.  First they ate the seeds of all the weeds and tall grasses that reached above the snow, then they cleaned the honeysuckles of their watery black berries.  When these were nearly gone, I began to feed them every day with crumbs, and they soon grew very tame.  At Christmas an ice storm came, and after that the cold was bitter indeed.  For two days I did not see my birds; but on the third day in the afternoon, when I was feeding the hens in the barnyard, a party of feeble, half-starved Juncos, hardly able to fly, settled down around me and began to pick at the chicken food.

“I knew at a glance that after a few hours’ more exposure all the poor little birds would be dead.  So I shut up the hens and opened the door of the straw-barn very wide, scattered a quantity of meal and cracked corn in a line on the floor, and crept behind the door to watch.  First one bird hopped in and tasted the food; he found it very good and evidently called his brothers, for in a minute they all went in and I closed the door upon them.  And I slept better that night because I knew that my birds were comfortable.

“‘They may go in once, but you will never catch them so again,’ said my father, when he heard about it.  I had an idea, however, that the birds trusted me; for though they flew out very gladly the next morning, they did not seem afraid.