"Good-morning."
"Ah, good-morning. How are you?"
I was on what I suppose is habitually the most crowded sidewalk in Boston, where men in haste are always to be seen betaking themselves to the street as the only means of making headway. A hand was laid on my shoulder. A business man, one of the busiest, I should think he must be, had come up behind me. He was looking happy. Yes, he said, he was very well. "And yesterday," he continued, "I had a great pleasure. I saw my first fox-colored sparrow, and heard him sing."
No wonder his face shone. His condition was enviable. The fox sparrow is a noble bird, with a most musical voice, the prince of all sparrows. To hear him for the first time—if one does hear him—is a real event. A man might well walk a crowded
