Among these flocks of Snow-Birds, a few individuals of the common Hair-Bird (Fringilla socialis) may frequently be seen.  The majority of this species migrate to a more open clime; but sufficient numbers remain to entitle them to be included with other Snow-Birds of the Finch tribe.  He is one of the smallest of the Sparrows, of a brownish ash color above, and grayish white beneath.  He wears a little cap or turban of brown velvet on his head, and by this mark he is readily distinguished from his kindred Sparrows.  Relying on his diminutive size for his security, he comes quite up to our door-step, mindless of the people who are assembled round it, and, fearless of danger, picks up the crumbs that are scattered there.  He may be seen at all seasons of the year, though his voice is not heard in the spring so early as that of the Song-Sparrow or the Blue-Bird.  He lives chiefly on seeds, though, like other granivorous birds, he feeds his young with grubs and small insects.  This is a general practice with the granivorous tribes, in order to provide their young with soft and digestible food before they are strong enough to digest the hard, coriaceous seed.  Nature has formed an exception in the Pigeon tribe; but has compensated them by providing that the parent bird shall soften the food in her own crop before it is given to the tender young.  From the peculiar manner in which the young are fed comes the epithet, “sucking doves.”

It is common to speak disparagingly of the little Hair-Bird, as if he were good for nothing, without beauty and without song, and, what is of still more consequence in the eyes of the sordid epicure, too small to be eaten, his weight of flesh not being worth a charge of powder and shot.  We can never sufficiently rejoice that there are some birds too small to excite the avaricious feelings of these knights of the fowling-piece and the rifle.  The Hair-Bird is not to be despised, except by epicures.  Though he is contemptuously styled the “Chipping-Sparrow,”—­a name which I will never consent to apply to him,—­his voice is no mean accompaniment to the general chorus which may be heard every still morning before sunrise, during May and June.  His continued trilling note is to this warbling band what the octave flute is to a grand concert of artificial instruments.  The voices of numbers of these birds, which are the very first to be heard and the last to become silent in the morning, serve to fill up the pauses in this sylvan anthem, like a running appoggiatural accompaniment in certain admired musical compositions.  How little soever the Hair-Bird may generally be valued as a songster, his voice, I am sure, would be most sadly missed, were it never more to be heard charmingly blending with the other louder voices of the feathered choristers.