odds the brightest patch of feathers of the new century. The birds must be wintering not far away, I suppose; but though I have been up and down that road a dozen times since February came in, I have seen nothing more of them. Within a month they will be singing, taking the winds of March with music. No more staccato then, but the smoothest of fluency.
Much the birdiest spot known to me just now is under our own windows—under them and against them, as shall presently be explained. Indeed, we may be said to be running a birds' boarding-house, and we are certainly doing an excellent business. "Meals at all hours," our signboard reads. We "set a good table," as the trade expression is, and our guests, who, being experienced travelers, know a good thing when they see it, have spread the news. There is no advertisement so effective as a satisfied customer.
The earliest comers are the blue jays. They anticipate the first call for breakfast, appearing before sunrise. Jays are a shrewd set. They can put two and two together with the sharpest of us. Man, they have dis-
