THE last winter was one of unusual severity in the south, as well as elsewhere. The cold continued until rather late in the spring and caused the death of numbers of birds that came north too soon. One day the last of March a sycamore warbler flew in at the open door of a cottage in the Indian Territory. It settled familiarly on the dining-table, picking up crumbs from the cloth. It seemed cold and almost famished, having arrived too early from its winter haunts in Mexico or Guatemala. After satisfying its hunger it flew about the room, and presently, instead of flying out, it dashed its breast against a mirror and dropped to the floor, quite dead. The blow could scarcely have caused death except for the bird's exhausted condition. I picked up the wee creature to examine its pretty coat. How dainty each ash-gray feather! Some were tipped and some marked with white. The throat had a tinge of yellow; then two colors giving the extra names of "white-browed" and "yellow-throated" warbler. This bird frequents marshy lands where sycamore trees flourish. It loves to build its nest in the topmost boughs, safe from all enemies. Here the male, screened from view, sings his song, which resembles that of the indigo bunting, but with a different modulation. When the days became warm I often saw a happy pair of them, busy, I supposed, in building, but the nests were too high for inspection.