But one is forgotten who in nature absolutely refuses to remain unnoticed—Sir Blue Jay—though an acknowledged cannibal and highwayman, he is withal so jaunty and attractive in everything but his voice and his habits as to convince his beholders that he is not half bad. With February’s closing days we may listen for the hardier representatives of the sparrow family, those twin aristocrats, the white-crowned and white-throated beauties, the more timid and ruddier fox, and the well-known song sparrow. Being unobtrusive in both song and garb, their first greeting may be missed, but the trained ear will soon catch the cheerful notes from hedge or brush pile, elicited by a chasing gleam of sunshine. These sweet-toned singers will prove a welcome contrast to the tiresome, incessant, complaining notes of their English cousins, who have spent the winter at the granary door or skirmishing in the garbage on the city streets. The sparrows are the beginner’s despair in ornithology, but are as interesting in habits, song and appearance as they are numerous and confusing. The observer who can readily distinguish them at all, from the familiar household “chippy” to the siskins, linnets and longspurs who frequent our latitudes only as erratic winter visitors, is truly to be envied. With March comes that steadfast commoner the robin and his warmer breasted thrush cousin, the bluebird. The former, with his matter-of-fact twitter of greeting, soon supplements it with a bar of his hearty if somewhat unpolished song. But the less intrepid bluebird will wait for a south wind’s caress ere his gurgle of delight will float earward as airily as his hovering flight.