winter trip to the sunny Southland, where their winters were spent.

I was very glad to know that we bobolinks were to travel only in the
daytime, as that would afford us younger ones a better opportunity to
see the country. The return trip to the North is always made by night.
A great many people have wondered why we do this, and those who are
interested in our habits have tried to find out; but it is a secret the
birds have never yet divulged, and probably never will.

The blue jays were going to remain behind, for the winters which we
dreaded so much had no terrors for them. Sometimes when we were
preening our feathers under the radiant skies near the Southern gulf, I
thought of our old neighbors the jays, and fancied them in their bleak
Northern home flitting about in the tops of the leafless trees, swayed
by the icy winds from the upper lakes, and with perhaps but little to
eat. I would not have exchanged places with them for the world. But
my older comrades assured me the jays were not in need of my sympathy
or pity. They liked the invigorating cold and chattered merrily in the
desolate boughs and enjoyed many a nice meal from under the melting
snow. The crimson dogwood berries, standing out like rosettes of
coral, at which they liked to peck, also furnished them an aesthetic
and sumptuous feast. Much more to be dreaded than the winter's cold
was the cruel sportsman, said my comrades.

The day of our departure came. The concourse of birds setting out on
their annual journeys was immense, and oh, what joy it was to soar
aloft on buoyant pinion high up in the blue sky, over housetops and
tops of trees, skimming along above rushing waters or tranquil streams
in quiet meadows. Mere existence was a keen delight. The sense of
freedom, of lightness, of airiness, was gloriously exhilarating, a