out seeing a bird. Between it and the Bridge stretches a law unreclaimed swampy tract of land. For the most part bristling clumps of swamp grass covers the sulphury soil. In some places, and especially near the bridge; the grass gives way to dense underbrush, mostly elders.  Two streams cross it on their way to the Little Beaver. Past that little old house up there on the hill, one winds its merry way thru the fringed banks, from the outlet of an old and apparently forgotten mine under the road and down thru the pebbly sulphur-soaked earth, curving around by the Swamp as tho to peer into it, and then on thru the brush to the creek. The other comes tumbling down the hill further on, near that still old and shabbier house, and finds its way to the creek in the same manner as the first.
     Coming out of the “Swamp”, I “scared up” several field sparrows, who, however were rather tame, letting me approach quite near before they gave their chirpy call and flew up. Sud­denly a species of songsparrow began to sing - not the real songs sparrow - but the song was sweet nevertheless. For a long time I looked for him to no purpose