IT was October 8, and many birds had gone on their long journey to tropical lands. The fog hung thick like a white blanket between the trees, and obscured all distant objects, such as mountain ranges or winding rivers, from view. My home was in Lynchburg, on the James River, and consequently in the line of the "birds' highway," and I was standing beside the window on the lookout for migrants, when, to my surprise, there alighted in the tree beside me a female scarlet tanager in olive-green and dusky yellow, with her soft, innocent eyes looking with gentle confidence around her. In a few minutes the trees around her were ringing with chip cheer! chip cheer! from a large flock of tanagers that had evidently lost their way in the fog, and descended near the ground to make observations. During the morning three different waves of migrating tanagers passed, flying slowly and so low that it was easy to see and recognize them.

The next day it was again thickly foggy. As I glanced out at the window I saw another tanager, sitting motionless on a bough. From ten to three wave after wave, in even greater numbers than the day before, passed. Frequently there were from three to nine tanagers perched in full view, occasionally calling chip cheer! but usually quietly resting or eating insects, of which the trees were full. I heard one crunching a hard-shelled bit in his strong beak. The scarlet of summer was not to be seen in the fall plumage of green and yellow, but the books are misleading when they speak of the male as "dull," or "like the female." It is true he is green above and yellow underneath, but where her wings are darker or "fuscous," his wings and tail are a glossy, velvety black, and instead of her dull yellow, his breast is a shining and vivid lemon-yellow, so that he is almost as beautiful as in his black and scarlet. In such large flocks I saw every phase of varying yellow or green in the immature males and females, one of the latter seeming a soft olive all over, slightly greener above and slightly more yellow below. Even in the spring, when our woods ring with the joyous calls and songs of both varieties, I have never seen half the number of tanagers together.

I was interested in noticing how many of our migrating birds gathered in unusually large flocks. The oven birds and the mocking-birds were seen in large numbers before they left, for many, if not most of the latter, do go farther South in cold weather. I heard one of the mocking-birds singing the most exquisite song, but softened almost to a whisper, as if singing in a dream a farewell to the trees he knew so well. He sang in this way for quite a long while, the rest of the flock flying excitedly to and fro. I also saw a large flock of chebecs instead of the one or two scattered migrants I was accustomed to see in the fall. The gay-colored sapsuckers came to us in large flocks—they spend the winter with us—filling the trees around us.

For the first time, too, I had an experience of the caprices of migrating warblers. The blackpolls and pine-warblers, so numerous last year, had evidently chosen another route to the tropics, nor were the magnolia and the chestnut-sided to be seen. But the Cape May warblers, usually rare, were very numerous, and remained long—from September 20 to October 18. This might probably be explained by the abundant supply of food, for the unusual warmth of the season had not only awakened the fruit trees and lilacs, the kalmia and other wild flowers, to a second period of blooming, but had filled the air with immense swarms of tiny insects. Everywhere glittered and danced myriads of winged creatures, and the trees offered a plentiful table for our insect-loving warblers.