WHETHER certain birds are annexationists or not would be hard to tell, but a goodly company of Canadians regularly spend the winter with me here in the valley of the Delaware, and what jolly times we have! It was later than usual, this year, that we met, but none the less hearty was their cheerful greeting. The wide wilderness of weeds, tangled greenbrier, the grove of stately poplars rang as though the bells of Moscow had been brought with them. There were kinglets and tree-sparrows, snow-birds and bluebirds, black-caps and the crested tit, nuthatches, purple finches, and a winter wren. So much for the deserted woods that newspaper poets are groaning over. Even the upper air was not without its quota, for hundreds of bluebirds were passing to and fro and singing that plaintive autumn song that is matchless of a cool October morning.

Shout your merriest, ornithologists, and declare these birds are not Canadian. Of course I know it, but there is a bit of Canada south of the Stateline of New Jersey, which possibly you did not know; and what concerns me only is that my winter friends are from the North country, and some of them very probably did cross the great lakes in coming here. What matters it? They are here, and being a law unto myself, I shall call them “Canadians." The others are here; but better, because more fixed in their ways, are the white-throats. There is a trace of uncertainty in all the rest; but who ever failed to find the whitethroats at home? All the year round we have vesper- spar rows in the lane field, and from early October to May the white-throats in the thickets. Perhaps minnows in the brooks and frogs in the marsh are as much a fixture, but it is only perhaps.

To-day I heard their song, though there was overmuch clatter, and how completely the song and the season go hand in hand! To us, untravelled natives, though the whole world was green and the heat of the tropics prevailed, the song of the white-throat would be crisp with frost.

It is the same place and without change these thirty years. The rank growths of summer bar all progress to the stranger, but I have found, as of old, the one slight trail that leads to the inner court, and here I propose to stay and listen. This is the white-throat's winter-quarters, and I fancy they do not take my intrusion unkindly. Other birds are not crowded out, but they are transient visitors; for the time being, the white-throats and I are at home.

The charm of this sparrow's song lies in the evident satisfaction of the tone. There is not a trace of longing, but a superabundance of content. It recalls some of the old people whom I have known, who occasionally gave way to whistling a few notes, looking into the far-distant past as they did so, and then coming back to real life with a frightened look. Such people remark, “Oh, excuse me; I was thinking!” as if they needed an excuse. So with the white-throats; they seem always to be thinking, and they are. But of what? Has the painted hill-side and the gilded meadow aught to do with it? Is it the haze and shimmering that softens every angle and blends the harshest clustering to a beauteous whole? This, I fancy, gives color to their thoughts and its dreamy expression; for “let sage or cynic prattle as he will," the surroundings have to do with a bird's ways in all directions. It is not a valid objection, either, that in summer there is not the same dreamy surroundings, but all the activity and merriment known elsewhere in the bird-world. Very true, but what of the six months of each year in the alternately dreamy and dreary thickets of New Jersey? Live six months on the Delaware meadows and the recollection of that experience will not fade away, even though you mount the shoulders of a saint and peep into Paradise.

I very vaguely recall, just now, a canal-boat trip reported in a magazine. The authors went through the best parts of these meadows and said there was nothing to be seen between the two towns that are separated by these wonderful lowlands. They were not careful in reading the proof-sheets. Grant them credit for meaning there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in the town. But evidently they never saw the meadows, though their eyes rested upon them. It matters not. There are half a hundred kinds of birds that know them well, even in winter, and I bear testimony that they are excellent company. Winter birds, too, have an advantage over our summer contingent, in that they are not “wrapped up in their babies," as I heard it said of young mothers recently. No, birds now are free, and how thoroughly the white-throated sparrows enjoy it! As I sat where the noontide sun could shine upon me, I watched these birds, as often before, but now they were newly suggestive. There were five on the same reach of stout greenbrier, all facing me. At brief intervals one would chirp and the others reply, but there was little movement and no demonstration. How vividly they recalled certain loungers on the long tavern porch! There were five of them, too, and I was ever glad to sit near by and listen to their drowsy talk. They talked of old times, and the birds here make me think of my old times; for, be it few years or more, our best times were those farthest removed from the present. The Delaware is now very tame since I have seen the St. Lawrence, but it is none the less dear, and tells so strange a story that few believe it from hearsay. It is commendable loyalty to defend the merits of one's birthplace, and I think those the wisest birds of their kind that make this river valley their home. The white-throats and I are one in this, and so what wilds in the remotest regions can equal the greenbrier thickets of the homestead meadows? We are not exclusive, and many a visitor is made welcome. Prettiest, merriest, most restless of them all are the kinglets. "You have but to sit still to meet them face to face. To-day I had them within arm's length, and heard many a lively chirp as I startled them by some uncouth sound I made. As in all birds, each day brings to the front some marked peculiarity, and we think of the creature in that regard only. What swallowing capacity they have! One found a huge worm in its travels, and at first glance it seemed nip and tuck between them. That was due to my ignorance. There was a struggle, of course, but the bird came off conqueror, and ought to have looked twice as big as before. Such incidents have no effect upon the appetite. It was ready for another before the first was swallowed. Only the white-throats seemed indifferent in this matter. They, too, were spectators, and never once looked for food.

The nuthatches came and went. The chickadee was somewhere overhead in the persimmon-trees; a crested tit whistled from time to time, and I fancied I heard a cat-bird. I know a chewink was scratching among the dead leaves. But will this continue? It is an enormous change that is wrought between October and January, and what of the midwinter storms? If there is actually a storm, then even the south hill-side will be deserted; but if it is but clear and cold, where the thermometer ranges is of little moment. Because you shiver and ache, even when wrapped in fur, do not judge your neighbor as equally tender. There are cakes and ale for our winter birds when you look at Nature with a shudder, so desolate is its every aspect. I have seen them on dress parade with the mercury at zero. With grass as brittle as spun-glass, and every twig encased in ice, the cardinal grosbeak has headed the motley troop, and every bird in the neighborhood has marched along the hill showing its best paces to whomsoever would look. Nor were they mute. Not one but sang as joyously as ever the robin greeted morning in the month of May.

It is worth our while to meet birds- when in their winter-quarters. Why, as has been fancied, should they be mopish and unentertaining? It would seem as if animal life was but sleep when the cares of reproduction have passed, in many people's minds. s A bird and a bird's nest always go together. This is true, too, of midwinter, and a bird's nest without bird babies is well worth consideration. Not all our birds huddle up in the bushes as the sun goes down, and trust to the little shelter of scantily-leaved twigs. The winter wren, I know, has the same sleeping-place day after day, and this I have seen it fit up until storm-defying. The titmice in December will build nests that they soon abandon, as if they knew a storm was coming up and they proposed to keep dry while it raged. Flying squirrels find themselves with strange bedfellows occasionally; and how often have I found birds sheltering in the hay-mow! Birds that winter with us have need of all their wit. The struggle for existence is not lessened because no longer burdened with the care of young. There is less available food, and death-dealing storms to be defied. But when these have passed, under the clear skies, my happy whitethroats and all their companions are blithe as ever. But who yet has kept track of them from October to May and knows of their coming and going and doings of each day while in winter-quarters?

There is work to be done by the winter rambler as well as by him who strolls afield in summer. Forcible evidence of this is the fact that apparently favorable conditions do not influence the birds. In other words, beautifully calm and warm days may be birdless, and forbidding, chilly, half-stormy days may be birdful to a remarkable degree. It is never safe to predict in such matters. I recall one beautiful November day when all the earth and air was simply perfect. I started across lots as the sun was slowly sloping in the west, and saw at a glance how complete was every arrangement, but it was as if you were alone in a vast theatre. The rich brown tones of the ripened leaves; the dark cedars with their dusty fruit; the tufts of gilded and bronzed grass; an andropogon bearing eider-down tufts; shimmering cobweb that stretched from everywhere to all places whatsoever; and a mellow sunlight that gave welcoming warmth to all. What more could be asked? yet there was not a bird in sight. Not a vesper-sparrow, yet never in June had they known better days; not a song-sparrow on the weed-grown fences; no bluebirds in the air. This is the nearest to utter desolation that I have known, — a perfect and yet a birdless day.

While yet the sunlight lingered I walked on and on, until a chilling breeze from the river drove me back. Here were birds. Bluebirds were trying the cedars, as if any one of them would not afford sufficient shelter. Snow-birds darted from bush to thicket and back, and warblers by the score sought refuge from the coming storm. There were enough birds in every tree to have made the whole sunlit fields ring with joy; but no, perverse things, they must crouch and shiver by the river shore, and fret because the days were growing colder and shorter.

It was miserably dull the next day. A chilling Scotch mist rested on the fields, and the oak leaves wept — shall I say? — at the woful change. What now of the birds? I asked, and later found them merry, active, and every one afield. It was dull enough to dampen the ardor of an English sparrow, yet not one of them was snugly housed in its winter-quarters.