He has only one master in the art of self-fattening. This is one whose migration synchronizes with his, one who is likewise an enthusiastic insect-eater: the Bush-pipit, as the nomenclators so absurdly call him, whereas the dullest of our shepherds never hesitates to speak of him as the Grasset, the champion fat bird. The name in itself fully describes his leading characteristic. No other achieves such a degree of obesity. A moment comes when, laden with pads of fat up to its wings, its neck and the back of its head, the bird looks like a little pat of butter. The poor thing can hardly flutter from one mulberry-tree to the next, where it stops to pant in the thick leafage, half choked with melting fat, a martyr to its passion for Weevils. October brings us the slender White Wagtail, half pearly grey, half white, with a large black-velvet chest-protector. The graceful little bird, trotting along and cocking up its tail, follows the ploughman almost under the horses’ feet and picks the grubs in the new-turned furrow. About the same time the Skylark arrives, first in little companies sent out as scouting-parties, next in countless battalions, which take possession of the cornfields and fallow land, with their plentiful setaria-seeds, the bird’s usual fare. Then, in the plain, amid the universal glitter of dewdrops and rime-crystals hanging from every blade of grass, the treacherous mirror shoots forth its intermittent flashes in the rays of the morning sun; then the little Owl, released by the hunter’s hand, makes his short flight, alights, starts up again convulsively, rolling frightened eyes; and the Lark arrives, dipping on the wing, curious to obtain a closer view of the bright apparatus or the grotesque bird. He is there, in front of you, a dozen yards away, with feet pendant and wings outspread like the Dove in a sacred picture. Now then: take aim and fire! I wish my readers the excitement of this fascinating sport. With the Skylark, often in the same companies, comes the Titlark, commonly called the Sisi. Here again an onomatopœia gives us the bird’s little call-note. None goes with greater fury for the Owl, round whom he manœuvres and hovers constantly. But we will not continue the list of the birds of passage that visit us. Most of them make but a short halt here; they stay for a few weeks, attracted by the abundance of food, especially of insects; then, plump and strong, they pursue their southward journey. Others, fewer these, take up their winter quarters in our plains, where snow is very rare and where thousands of little seeds lie exposed on the ground, even in the depth of winter. One of these is the Skylark, who gives his attention to the corn-fields and fallows; another is the Titlark, who prefers the lucern-fields and meadows.