It would soon begin to get cold, and already the birds around him were leaving. They seemed to enjoy the fact that he could not follow. That mischievous little imp, Maryland Yellow-throat, especially took the greatest delight in peeping out from his brier thicket and then calling in his shrill voice, “Wintery, Wintery, Wintery,” just for the fun of seeing Bobolink look round anxiously at the falling leaves. And now Blackbird, usually among the last, was ready to go and would soon be feeding lavishly on the reed seeds. They would not last long. Bobolink was at his wit’s end. Then, as from the top of a reed he looked wistfully at the dusky form of departing Song Sparrow, an idea occurred to him. That afternoon he disappeared. He was not seen on the next day nor the next. At the end of the third day a very strange-looking bird might have been seen hopping about in the thicket which Bobolink had occupied. This newcomer was a modest fellow. He wore a plain, brown coat without a trace of the tall, white collar such as adorned Bobolink; and he talked very little. Indeed, his only note seemed to be a dull, little chirp which no one understood. While folks in the north country were beginning to wonder who this new comer could be, he, too, disappeared. A little later the birds of the Great Meadow were surprised to see what to them was a very odd-looking traveler. He was no other than the brown stranger who had just left the north country. No one remembered to have seen him before. Rough-leg, who from his high lookout kept his eyes open for Bobolink, saw the newcomer, but the modest plumage awakened little interest in his mind. Blackbird, who always fed near the stranger, kept up a sociable chat all the time, but he was unable to learn anything of the other’s history. Indeed the latter, although polite, paid little attention to his neighbors but went on busily about his food. He soon became quite stout. The fall had nearly passed. All the birds except Rough-leg, Blackbird, and the stranger had gone South. The leaves had fallen and the reeds turned to brown fagots. Rough-leg still kept up his weary look-out. Occasionally he would launch himself from the now leafless poplar and circle over the Meadows. The brown bird would bolt up nervously from his feeding ground and Blackbird, thinking that it was he who had disturbed him would flutter overhead, calling out heartily, “Don’t mind me-e-e! Don’t mind me-e-e!” But in spite of Blackbird’s cheer the stranger would start up every time Rough-leg’s shadow passed over the meadow. But one day when the autumn wind murmured through the dry reeds the brown bird had flown. A day later Blackbird followed.