As instances of "spring arrivals," as we will class them, that have become resident species, we will first mention the well-known bluebird (Sialia sialis), which, whatever may be the state of the weather, is as lively and full of song from November 1st to April as from April to November; yet it is still considered as a migratory species, and formerly, we doubt not, was so, even in New Jersey. More interest are the two instances yet to mention, being those of the common yellow-rumped warbler (Dendroica coronata), which, in scanty numbers, braves our winters and from the tops of the loftier pines chirps merrily while the snow-flakes fill the air, and later in the winter seeks shelter in protected nooks where the noonday sun has melted the snow and gives us a breath of spring-like air. In several such spots, since February, 1863, when we shot the first "winter" specimen, we have not failed to find several individuals of this species, during each of the winter months, and of their number that thus remain with us there seems to be a steady increase. The same remarks will apply, in part, to that beautiful but not well-known songster, Bewick's wren (Thryothonis Bewickii). They too, in scanty numbers, congregate in sheltered places having a southern outlook, and now, while we are writing (October 29th) we can hear the clear notes of this lively bird as it sits, braving a chilly westerly wind, perched on a leafless branch of a sycamore.
We have noted now the more prominent features in the migratory habits of our inland birds as they come to us in May from the South, save the one fact, the bearing of which upon the subject we cannot determine, that a large proportion of the birds perform the journey by night, the others wholly by day. At least this is the common impression, but it is difficult to demonstrate it. How little, really, we know of the precise modus operandi of migration! All through April and May, if astir at the earliest dawn, when the resident birds are just starting their morning songs, we will occasionally hear the welcome notes of some summer bird for the first time. Has it been winging its way northward through the thick, black hours of night, guided by some unknown sense, and no sooner above its old-time haunts than it checks its onward course, and from a familiar tree sings with grateful heart a loud thanksgiving glee?
If we wander about those quiet nooks and by-ways, where the first thrushes and warblers are likely to be seen these same months, we will find all the day long, and evening too, these birds "conspicuous for their absence." Not a chirp or twitter, save of the sparrows and tits of all the year, and the lingering snow-birds that seem to regret leaving our pleasant places. Far into the night we may remain, and only the startled chirp of some disturbed or dreaming bird, or the fret and scolding of little owls, greet our ears. The silence of midnight may pass unbroken, and then, as the first gray streaks of light in the hazy east herald the oncoming day, suddenly a cheerful warble
