NOT even the owl is as much of a hermit as he appears. The little fellow that all summer long has slept by day in the hollow apple-tree, and hooted by night from the adjacent tree- tops, has a taste for company, and when two meet, their hooting gives way to a varied range of lowly-murmured chatterings very different from the conventional cries of all owldom. Keep a pet one (and they are easily tamed) and you will find them not only as wise as they look, but not averse to rough-and-tumble fun. But a few days ago, in my wanderings, I reached the bank of a river, long after sundown, and pitched my little tent by the fitful light of a green-wood camp-fire. Ejaculations were not smothered, but explosive, and the whole strange scene brought not one but three little red owls to the front. They were not afraid, and discussed my companion, the dog, and myself vigorously. They enjoyed the novelty, and all through the night their tremulous tones broke the stillness of the dense, dark woods. I dreamed of huge flocks of owls, such as no man ever saw, and was routed at dawn by a great rushing of wings that seemed dangerously close at hand. It was a flock of blackbirds.

Birds are social, and whatever may have been the conditions at the dawn of bird-life, their gatherings now are purely pleasurable. I do not think any advantage to the individual can come of it, other than satisfying social impulses. Let us go back of the formation of these huge flocks and give a moment's notice to another phase of a bird's existence. This, from a recent paper, covers the whole ground: “Most birds, we are told, ‘pair once for all, till either one or the other dies.' Dr. Brehm, the author of ‘Bird-Life,' is so filled with admiration for their exemplary family-life as to be led to declare enthusiastically that ‘real genuine marriage can only be found among birds.' “The initial point of flocking is there, — that of mating; later, the family keep largely together; towards the close of the summer the families of a neighborhood unite, and, urged by the approach of autumn, the birds of a whole river valley will merge into some two or three great flocks, and in such close companionship migrate, or wander to and fro, from one feeding-ground to another.

When did birds begin to flock? This has often been asked, but never can be told. A close study of this habit, as of many other bird-ways, points to the conclusion that it is a survival of a much more fixed one. There is now a vast deal of irregularity about it. Certainly the red-winged blackbirds, which form our largest flocks, are not all gathered in, and single ones, pairs, and half a dozen together remain all winter scattered up and down the river valley. It is true of every other flocking bird. The majority keep up the old custom, but so many stand aloof in every instance that it might almost be said the custom is dying out.

Let it be borne in mind that I am writing of a single locality, the Atlantic seaboard of the Middle States, and of this region I am disposed to make the statement that man has so modified the land that bird-life is rapidly losing its one-time characteristic features. It is sad to think that birds have seen their best days, and what we now have left us, as the chief charm of our outings, is but a lingering remnant of the great concourse that not only filled the valley, but made glad the outermost parts and neglected no nooks or corners of the land. Making due allowance for travellers' exaggerations, it is still evident that we have, except of the English sparrows, not one-half of the birds of some two centuries ago. Even though the flocks of red-wings may sometimes reach well into the thousands, I have positive knowledge of much larger flocks than ever Wilson or Audubon chanced upon. In 1722 a flock of these birds appeared one September afternoon on the Crosswicks meadows “that shut out the sun and caused great concern among the farmers, who feared if they came to the fields every green growth would be laid waste." Blackbirds then were feared and for years after by reason of their numbers; and, seemingly, when in such flocks they were far more bold than ever as individuals.

It has been suggested by some one that probably, in Indian times, or when the country was heavily forested, such birds as the red-wing and grakles or crow-blackbirds were really less numerous than now; and that the extensive cultivation of corn had to do with their increase and favored the flocking instinct. This is an error. Writing of crow-blackbirds, or “maize-thieves," as he says the Swedes called the familiar purple grakle, Kalm states of those he saw in New Jersey: “They are very bold; for, when disturbed, they only go and settle in another part of the field.... They fly in incredible swarms in autumn; and it can hardly be conceived whence such immense numbers of them should come. When they rise in the air they darken the sky and make it look quite black. They are then in such great numbers and so close together that it is surprising how they find room to move their wings." This was in 1749, when the amount of cleared ground and acreage of corn was not greater than in the palmy days of Indian supremacy, for Kalm was mistaken about Indian agriculture, and the statement, “they planted but little maize," is misleading. If small, their fields were numerous, and some were used for so long a time that to this day they have not recovered their fertility, the application of patent plant-food even availing little.

Why do they congregate in such numbers? It has been suggested that in early autumn their food was to be found only in limited localities, and they naturally drifted there, moved, one and all, by the same cause. In other words, the upland fields, the spring-holes, the grassy nooks in old field-corners, where they nested, offered nothing but shelter, and to stay longer than during summer meant to starve. The fact that scattered birds do frequent the nesting-places contradicts this; and the food found in the meadows is not greatly different, and often too many gather in one spot for all to be fed. Whatever the bird, there seems to be nothing gained by flocking, and much is lost. It appears to be an inherited instinct that, once a source of delight and unattended with danger, is now, as ever, attractive, but directly disadvantageous.

We are accustomed to look upon certain species of birds as flocking in autumn, and that others never do so. I am convinced that all were gregarious originally, but changes of environment have caused it to be relinquished; but it is astonishing to find that there are few birds that cannot be found at least “in loose companies," as it is commonly worded. In September the bluebirds occasionally fly in pretty compact flocks of fifty to one hundred individuals, and a company of twenty or thirty is a common occurrence. The common kingbird is another well-known species that flocks to some extent, and a third is the Baltimore oriole. I have seen the females and young of the preceding summer in flocks of certainly one hundred individuals, and when on the wing they kept so well together as to merit being classed as a flock, rather than a semi-independent gathering. It is evident that such close association, as in the case of red-wings, of bobolinks, of rusty grakles, and other birds, could not occur if there was no power of communication and no predetermination as to movement. I have yet to see a large flock of birds without guards perched in commanding outlooks, and know from experience how difficult it is to outwit these sentinels. It has often been my afternoon's amusement to try to plunge into the midst of a thousand feeding blackbirds, and I never succeeded. I have reversed the conditions more than once, and, being concealed, have had them pass within arm's reach, and then I took notes of them as fast as possible. That they talked faster when they ate was evident, but my disguise never was effective for long. They always suspected that something was wrong, communicated their suspicions, and now the mystery: one and all rise from the ground as one body. Not always, but so frequently that a telegraphic signal is evidently theirs that informs a thousand, it may be, at the same moment. Without this power, this possession of rudimentary language, a flock of birds would be at the mercy of every enemy, and they are legion.

Suggestive as is every flock of birds, we really know but little about them. No naturalist has yet fathomed the mystery of bird-life, and bird-slaughter has accomplished comparatively nothing. But no class of animals affords so much pleasure wherever we ramble.