A BIRD-LOVER IN THE WEST

 BY

 OLIVE THORNE MILLER

 BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1900

 Copyright, 1894, BY H. M. MILLER. 

 _All rights reserved. _

 _The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. , U. S. A. _ Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

The studies in this volume were all made, as the title indicates, in theWest; part of them in Colorado (1891), in Utah (1893), and the remainder(1892) in what I have called "The Middle Country, " being Southern Ohio, and West only relatively to New England and New York, where most of mystudies have been made. 

Several chapters have appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly" and othermagazines, and in the "Independent" and "Harper's Bazar, " while othersare now for the first time published. 

 OLIVE THORNE MILLER. 

CONTENTS. 

 IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 

 PAGE

 I. CAMPING IN COLORADO 3

 II. IN THE COTTONWOODS 17

 Western wood-pewee. _Contopus richardsonii. _ Western house wren. _Troglodytes aëdon aztecus. _ Towhee. _Pipilo erythrophthalmus. _

 III. AN UPROAR OF SONG 32

 Western meadow-lark. _Sturnella magna neglecta. _ Horned lark. _Otocoris alpestris leucolæma. _ Yellow warbler. _Dendroica æstiva. _ Western wood-pewee. _Contopus richardsonii. _ Humming-bird. _Trochilus colubris. _ Long-tailed chat. _Icteria virens longicauda. _

 IV. THE TRAGEDY OF A NEST 42

 Long-tailed chat. _Icteria virens longicauda. _

 V. A FEAST OF FLOWERS 52

 VI. A CINDERELLA AMONG FLOWERS 60

 VII. CLIFF-DWELLERS IN THE CAÑON 70

 Cañon wren. _Catherpes mexicanus conspersus. _ American dipper. _Cinclus mexicanus. _

 IN THE MIDDLE COUNTRY. 

 VIII. AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING 95

 Purple grackle. _Quiscalus quiscula. _ Mourning dove. _Zenaidura macroura. _ Red-headed woodpecker. _Melanerpes erythrocephalus. _ Blue jay. _Cyanocitta cristata. _ Cardinal grosbeak. _Cardinalis cardinalis. _ American robin. _Merula migratoria. _ Golden-wing woodpecker. _Colaptes auratus. _ House sparrow. _Passer domesticus. _

 IX. THE LITTLE REDBIRDS 113

 Cardinal grosbeak. _Cardinalis cardinalis. _ House sparrow. _Passer domesticus. _

 X. THE CARDINAL'S NEST 119

 Cardinal grosbeak. _Cardinalis cardinalis. _ Bobolink. _Dolichonyx oryzivorus. _ Meadow-lark. _Sturnella magna. _

 XI. LITTLE BOY BLUE 126

 Blue jay. _Cyanocitta cristata. _

 XII. STORY OF THE NESTLINGS 136

 Blue jay. _Cyanocitta cristata. _

 XIII. BLUE JAY MANNERS 144

 Blue jay. _Cyanocitta cristata. _

 XIV. THE GREAT CAROLINIAN 154

 Great Carolina wren. _Thryothorus ludovicianus. _ Yellow-billed cuckoo. _Coccyzus americanus. _ Crested flycatcher. _Myiarchus crinitus. _

 XV. THE WRENLINGS APPEAR 172 Great Carolina wren. _Thryothorus ludovicianus. _

 XVI. THE APPLE-TREE NEST 183

 Orchard oriole. _Icterus spurius. _

 XVII. CEDAR-TREE LITTLE FOLK 194

 Mourning dove. _Zenaidura macroura. _

 BESIDE THE GREAT SALT LAKE. 

 XVIII. IN A PASTURE 207

 Louisiana tanager. _Piranga ludoviciana. _ Green-tailed towhee. _Pipilo chlorurus. _ Magpie. _Pica pica hudsonica. _

 XIX. THE SECRET OF THE WILD ROSE PATH 231

 Long-tailed chat. _Icteria virens longicauda. _ Western robin. _Merula migratoria propinqua. _ Black-headed grosbeak. _Habia melanocephala. _

 XX. ON THE LAWN 259

 Lazuli-painted finch. _Passerina amœna. _ Broad-tailed humming-bird. _Trochilus platycercus. _ House sparrow. _Passer domesticus. _

IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 

 Trust me, 't is something to be cast Face to face with one's self at last, To be taken out of the fuss and strife, The endless clatter of plate and knife, The bore of books, and the bores of the street, From the singular mess we agree to call Life. 

 * * * * *

 And to be set down on one's own two feet So nigh to the great warm heart of God, You almost seem to feel it beat Down from the sunshine and up from the sod; To be compelled, as it were, to notice All the beautiful changes and chances Through which the landscape flits and glances, And to see how the face of common day Is written all over with tender histories. 

 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

A BIRD-LOVER IN THE WEST. 

I. 

CAMPING IN COLORADO. 

This chronicle of happy summer days with the birds and the flowers, atthe foot of the Rocky Mountains, begins in the month of May, in the yeareighteen hundred and ninety-two. 

As my train rolled quietly out of Jersey City late at night, I uttered asigh of gratitude that I was really off; that at last I could rest. Upto the final moment I had been hurried and worried, but the instant Iwas alone, with my "section" to myself, I "took myself in hand, " as ismy custom. 

At the risk of seeming to stray very far from my subject, I want at thispoint to say something about rest, the greatly desired state that allbusy workers are seeking, with such varying success. 

A really re-creative recreation I sought for years, and

 "I've found some wisdom in my quest That's richly worth retailing, "

and that cannot be too often repeated, or too urgently insisted upon. What is imperatively needed, the sole and simple secret of rest, isthis: To go to our blessed mother Nature, and to go with the wholebeing, mind and heart as well as body. To deposit one's physical framein the most secret and sacred "garden of delights, " and at the same timeallow the mind to be filled, and the thoughts to be occupied, with theconcerns of the world we live in year after year, is utterly useless;for it is not the external, but the internal man that needs recreation;it is not the body, but the spirit that demands refreshment and relieffrom the wearing cares of our high-pressure lives. "It is of no use, "says a thoughtful writer, "to carry my body to the woods, unless I getthere myself. "

Let us consult the poets, our inspired teachers, on this subject. SaysLowell, --

 "In June 't is good to lie beneath a tree While the blithe season comforts every sense, Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart, Brimming it o'er with sweetness unawares, Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up And tenderly lines some last-year's robin's nest. "

And our wise Emerson, in his strong and wholesome, if sometimes ruggedway, --

 "Quit thy friends as the dead in doom, And build to them a final tomb. 

 * * * * *

 Behind thee leave thy merchandise, Thy churches and thy charities. 

 * * * * *

 Enough for thee the primal mind That flows in streams--that breathes in wind. "

Even the gentle Wordsworth, too; read his exquisite sonnet, beginning, --

 "The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. "

All recognize that it is a mental and spiritual change that is needed. 

With the earnest desire of suggesting to tired souls a practicable wayof resting, I will even give a bit of personal history; I will tell theway in which I have learned to find recreation in nature. 

When I turn my back upon my home, I make a serious and determined effortto leave behind me all cares and worries. As my train, on that beautifulMay evening, passed beyond the brick and stone walls, and sped into theopen country, and I found myself alone with night, I shook off, as wellas I was able, all my affairs, all my interests, all myresponsibilities, leaving them in that busy city behind me, where a fewburdens more or less would not matter to anybody. With my trunkschecked, and my face turned toward the far-off Rocky Mountains, I leftthe whole work-a-day world behind me, departing--so far as possible--aliberated soul, with no duties excepting to rejoice and to recruit. This is not an easy thing to do; it is like tearing apart one's verylife; but it can be done by earnest endeavor, it has been done, and itis a charm more potent than magic to bring restoration and recreation tothe brain and nerve-weary worker. 

To insure any measure of success I always go alone; one familiar facewould make the effort of no avail; and I seek a place where I am astranger, so that my ordinary life cannot be recalled to me. When Ireach my temporary home I forget, or at least ignore, my notions as towhat I shall eat or drink, or how I shall sleep. I take the goods thegods provide, and adjust myself to them. Even these little things helpone out of his old ways of thought and life. To still further banishhome concerns, I mark upon my calendar one week before the day I shallstart for home, and sternly resolve that not until I reach that day willI give one thought to my return, but will live as though I meant to stayalways. I take no work of any sort, and I banish books, excepting a fewpoets and studies of nature. 

Such is the aim of my honest and earnest striving; that I do not quitereach my goal is merely to say I am human. Letters from home and friendswill drag me back to old interests, and times will come, in sleeplessnights and unguarded moments, when the whole world of old burdens andcares sweep in and overwhelm me. But I rouse my will, and resolutely, with all my power, push them back, refuse to entertain them for amoment. 

The result, even under these limitations, is eminently satisfactory. Holding myself in this attitude of mind, I secure a change almost ascomplete as if I stepped out of my body and left it resting, while Irefreshed myself at the fountain of life. A few weeks in the countrymake me a new being; all my thoughts are turned into fresh channels; theold ruts are smoothed over, if not obliterated; nerves on the strain allthe year have a chance to recreate themselves; old worries often weakenand fade away. 

The morning after I left home that balmy evening in May dawned upon mesomewhere in western New York, and that beautiful day was passed inspeeding through the country, and steadily getting farther and fartherfrom work and care. 

And so I went on, day after day, night after night, till I enteredKansas, which was new to me. By that time I had succeeded in banishingto the farthest corner of my memory, behind closed and locked doors, allthe anxieties, all the perplexities and problems, all the concerns, infact, of my home life. I was like a newly created soul, fresh and eagerto see and enjoy everything. I refused the morning papers; I wished toforget the world of strife and crime, and to get so into harmony withthe trees and flowers, the brooks and the breezes, that I would realizemyself

 "Kith and kin to every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. "

In one word, I wished as nearly as possible to walk abroad out of myhindering body of clay. 

I looked out of the windows to see what the Cyclone State had to giveme. It offered flowers and singing birds, broad fields of growing grain, and acres of rich black soil newly turned up to the sun. Everything wasfresh and perfect, as if just from the hands of its maker; it seemed theparadise of the farmer. 

From the fertile fields and miles of flowers the train passed to bare, blossomless earth; from rich soil to rocks; from Kansas to Colorado. That part of the State which appeared in the morning looked like a vastbody of hardly dry mud, with nothing worth mentioning growing upon it. Each little gutter had worn for itself a deep channel with precipitoussides, and here and there a great section had sunken, as though therewas no solid foundation. Soon, however, the land showed inclination todraw itself up into hills, tiny ones with sharp peaks, as thoughpreparing for mountains. Before long they retreated to a distance andgrew bigger, and at last, far off, appeared the mountains, overtoppingall one great white peak, the

 "Giver of gold, king of eternal hills. "

A welcome awaited me in the summer home of a friend at Colorado Springs, in the presence of the great Cheyenne Range, with the snow-cap of Pike'sPeak ever before me. Four delightful days I gave to friendship, and thenI sought and found a perfect nook for rest and study, in a cottonwoodgrove on the banks of the Minnelowan (or Shining Water). This is a madColorado stream which is formed by the junction of the North and SouthCheyenne Cañon brooks, and comes tumbling down from the Cheyenne, rushing and roaring as if it had the business of the world on itsshoulders, and must do it man-fashion, with confusion and noise enoughto drown all other sounds. 

Imagine a pretty, one-story cottage, set down in a grove ofcottonwood-trees, with a gnarly oak and a tall pine here and there, togive it character, and surrounded as a hen by her chickens, by tents, six or eight in every conceivable position, and at every possible angleexcept a right angle. Add to this picture the sweet voices of birds, andthe music of water rushing and hurrying over the stones; let yourglance take in on one side the grand outlines of Cheyenne Mountain, "Made doubly sacred by the poet's pen And poet's grave, "

and on the other the rest of the range, overlooked by Pike's Peak, fourteen thousand feet higher than the streets of New York. Do this, andyou will come as near to realizing Camp Harding as one can who ishundreds of miles away and has never seen a Colorado camp. 

Do not think, however, that such camps are common, even in that land ofoutdoors, where tents are open for business in the streets of the towns, and where every householder sets up his own canvas in his yard, for theinvalids to sleep in, from June to November. The little settlement oftents was an evolution, the gradual growth of the tent idea in the mindof one comfort-loving woman. She went there seven or eight years before, bought a grove under the shadow of Cheyenne, put up a tent, and passedher first summer thus. The next year, and several years thereafter, shegradually improved her transient abode in many ways that her womanlytaste suggested, --as a wooden floor, a high base-board, partitions ofmuslin or cretonne, door and windows of wire gauze. The originaldwelling thus step by step grew to a framed and rough-plastered house, with doors and windows _en règle_. 

Grouped picturesquely around the house, however, were some of the mostunique abiding-places in Colorado. On the outside they were permanenttents with wooden foundations; on the inside they were models ofcomfort, with regular beds and furniture, rugs on the floor, gauzywindow curtains, drapery wardrobes, and even tiny stoves for coolmornings and evenings. They combined the comforts of a house with theopen air and delightful freshness of a tent, where one might hear everybird twitter, and see the dancing leaf shadows in the moonlight. Overthe front platform the canvas cover extended to form an awning, and awire-gauze door, in addition to one of wood, made them airy or snug asthe weather demanded. 

The restfulness craved by the weary worker was there to be had for bothsoul and body, if one chose to take it. One might swing in a hammock allday, and be happy watching "the clouds that cruise the sultry sky"--asky so blue one never tires of it; or beside the brook he might "lieupon its banks, and dream himself away to some enchanted ground. " Or hemight study the ever-changing aspect of the mountains, --their dreamy, veiled appearance, with the morning sun full upon them; their deepviolet blueness in the evening, with the sun behind them, and themystery of the moonlight, which "sets them far off in a world of theirown, " as tender and unreal as mountains in a dream. 

He _might_ do all these things, but he is far more likely to becomeexcited, and finally bewitched by guide-books, and photographs, and talkall about him of this or that cañon, this or that pass, the Garden ofthe Gods, Manitou, the Seven Sisters' Falls, the grave of "H. H. ;" andunless a fool or a philosopher, before he knows it to be in the fullswing of sight-seeing, and becoming learned in the ways of burros, the"Ship of the Rockies, " so indispensable, and so common that even thebabies take to them. 

This traveler will climb peaks, and drive over nerve-shaking roads, asteep wall on one side and a frightful precipice on the other; he willtoil up hundreds of steps, and go quaking down into mines; he will look, and admire, and tremble, till sentiment is worn to threads, pursedepleted, and body and mind alike a wreck. For this sort of a travelerthere is no rest in Colorado; there always remains another mountain tothrill him, another cañon to rhapsodize over; to one who is greedy of"sights, " the tameness of Harlem, or the mud flats of Canarsie, willafford more rest. 

For myself I can always bear to be near sights without seeing them. Ibelieved what I heard--never were such grand mountains! never suchsoul-stirring views! never such hairbreadth roads! I believed--andstayed in my cottonwood grove content. I knew how it all looked; did Inot peer down into one cañon, holding my breath the while? and, withslightly differing arrangement of rocks and pine-trees and brooks, arenot all cañons the same? Did I not gaze with awe at the "trail to thegrave of H. H. , " and watch, without envy, the sight-seeing touriststruggle with its difficulties? Could I not supply myself withphotographs, and guide-books, and poems, and "H. H. 's" glowing words, and picture the whole scene? I could, I did, and to me Colorado was adelightful place of rest, with mountain air that it was a luxury tobreathe (after the machinery adjusted itself to the altitude), withglorious sunshine every morning, with unequaled nights of coolness, anda new flower or two for every day of the month. 

If to "see Colorado" one must ascend every peak, toil through everycañon, cast the eyes on every waterfall, shudder over each precipice, wonder at each eccentric rock, drink from every spring, then I have notseen America's Wonderland. But if to steep my spirit in the beauty ofits mountains so that they shall henceforth be a part of me; to inhaleits enchanting air till my body itself seemed to have wings; if to paintin my memory its gorgeous procession of flowers, its broad mesa crownedwith the royal blossoms of the yucca, its cosy cottonwood groves, itsbrooks rushing between banks of tangled greenery; if this is to "seeColorado, " then no one has ever seen it more thoroughly. 

The "symphony in yellow and red, " which "H. H. " calls this wonderland, grows upon the sojourner in some mysterious way, till by the time he hasseen the waxing and waning of one moon he is an enthusiast. It ischarming alike to the sight-seer whose jaded faculties pine for new andthrilling emotions, to the weary in brain and body who longs only forpeace and rest, and to the invalid whose every breath is a pain at home. To the lover of flowers it is an exhaustless panorama of beauty andfragrance, well worth crossing the continent to enjoy; to the mountainlover it offers endless attractions. 

Nothing is more fascinating to the stranger in Colorado than theformation of its cañons, not only the grand ones running up into theheart of the mountains, but the lesser ones cutting into the hightable-land, or mesa, at the foot of the hills. The above mentionedcottonwood grove, for example, with its dozen of dwellings and anatural park of a good many acres above it, with tall pines that bearthe marks of age, is so curiously hidden that one may come almost uponit without seeing it. It is reached from Colorado Springs by an electricroad which runs along the mesa south of the town. As the car nears theend of the line, one begins to look around for the grove. Not a tree isin sight; right and left as far as can be seen stretches the treelessplain to the foot of the eternal hills; not even the top of a tall pinethrusts itself above the dead level. Before you is Cheyenne--grim, glorious, but impenetrable. The conductor stops. "This is your place, "he says. You see no place; you think he must be mistaken. 

"But where is Camp Harding?" you ask. He points to an obscurepath--"trail" he calls it--which seems to throw itself over an edge. Youapproach that point, and there, to your wonder and your surprise, atyour feet nestles the loveliest of smiling cañon-like valleys, filledwith trees, aspen, oak, and pine, with here and there a tent or red roofgleaming through the green, and a noisy brook hurrying on its waydownhill. By a steep scramble you reach the lower level, birds singing, flowers tempting on every side, and the picturesque, narrow trailleading you on, around the ledge of rock, over the rustic bridge, tillyou reach the back entrance of the camp. Before it, up the narrowvalley, winds a road, the carriage-way to the Cheyenne cañons. 

II. 

IN THE COTTONWOODS. 

A cottonwood grove is the nearest approach to our Eastern ruraldistricts to be found in Colorado, and a cotton storm, looking exactlylike a snowstorm, is a common sight in these groves. The white, fluffymaterial grows in long bunches, loosely attached to stems, and the fibreis very short. At the lightest breeze that stirs the branches, tiny bitsof it take to flight, and one tree will shed cotton for weeks. It clingsto one's garments; it gets into the houses, and sticks to the carpets, often showing a trail of white footprints where a person has come in; itclogs the wire-gauze screens till they keep out the air as well as theflies; it fills the noses and the eyes of men and beasts. But its mostcurious effect is on the plants and flowers, to which it adheres, beinga little gummy. Some flowers look as if they were encased in ice, andothers seem wrapped in the gauziest of veils, which, flimsy as it looks, cannot be completely cleared from the leaves. 

It covers the ground like snow, and strangely enough it looks in June, but it does not, like snow, melt, even under the warm summer sunshine. It must be swept from garden and walks, and carted away. A heavy rainclears the air and subdues it for a time, but the sun soon dries thebunches still on the trees, and the cotton storm is again in full blast. This annoyance lasts through June and a part of July, fully six weeks, and then the stems themselves drop to, the ground, still holding enoughcotton to keep up the storm for days. After this, the first rainfallends the trouble for that season. 

In the midst of the cottonwoods, in beautiful Camp Harding, I spent theJune that followed the journey described in the last chapter, --

 "Dreaming sweet, idle dreams of having strayed To Arcady with all its golden lore. "

The birds, of course, were my first concern. Ask of almost any residentnot an ornithologist if there are birds in Colorado, and he will shakehis head. 

"Not many, I think, " he will probably say. "Camp birds and magpies. Ohyes, and larks. I think that's about all. "

This opinion, oft repeated, did not settle the matter in my mind, for Ilong ago discovered that none are so ignorant of the birds and flowersof a neighborhood as most of the people who live among them. I soughtout my post, and I looked for myself. 

There are birds in the State, plenty of them, but they are not onexhibition like the mountains and their wonders. No driver knows the wayto their haunts, and no guide-book points them out. Even a bird studentmay travel a day's journey, and not encounter so many as one shall seein a small orchard in New England. He may rise with the dawn, and hearnothing like the glorious morning chorus that stirs one in the AtlanticStates. He may search the trees and shrubberies for long June days, andnot find so many nests as will cluster about one cottage at home. 

Yet the birds are here, but they are shy, and they possess the trueColorado spirit, --they are mountain-worshipers. As the time approacheswhen each bird leaves society and retires for a season to the bosom ofits own family, many of the feathered residents of the State bethinkthem of their inaccessible cañons. The saucy jay abandons thesettlements where he has been so familiar as to dispute with the dogsfor their food, and sets up his homestead in a tall pine-tree on a slopewhich to look at is to grow dizzy; the magpie, boldest of birds, stealsaway to some secure retreat; the meadow-lark makes her nest in themonotonous mesa, where it is as well hidden as a bobolink's nest in aNew England meadow. 

The difficulties in the way of studying Colorado birds are several, aside from their excessive suspicion of every human being. In the firstplace, observations must be made before ten o'clock, for at that hourevery day a lively breeze, which often amounts to a gale, springs up, and sets the cottonwood and aspen leaves in a flutter that hides themovements of any bird. Then, all through the most interesting month ofJune the cottonwood-trees are shedding their cotton, and to a person onthe watch for slight stirrings among the leaves the falling cotton is aconstant distraction. The butterflies, too, wandering about in theiraimless way, are all the time deceiving the bird student, and drawingattention from the bird he is watching. 

On the other hand, one of the maddening pests of bird study at the Eastis here almost unknown, --the mosquito. Until the third week in June Isaw but one. That one was in the habit of lying in wait for me when Iwent to a piece of low, swampy ground overgrown with bushes. Think ofthe opportunity this combination offers to the Eastern mosquito, andconsider my emotions when I found but a solitary individual, and eventhat one disposed to coquette with me. 

I had hidden myself, and was keeping motionless, in order to see thevery shy owners of a nest I had found, when the lonely mosquito came asfar as the rim of my shade hat, and hovered there, evidently meditatingan attack--a mosquito hesitating! I could not stir a hand, or even shakemy leafy twig; but it did not require such violent measures; a lightpuff of breath this side or that was enough to discourage the gentlecreature, and in all the hours I sat there it never once came anynearer. The race increased, however, and became rather troublesome onthe veranda after tea; but in the grove they were never annoying; Irarely saw half a dozen. When I remember the tortures endured in thedear old woods of the East, in spite of "lollicopop" and pennyroyal, andother horrors with which I have tried to repel them, I could almostdecide to live and die in Colorado. 

The morning bird chorus in the cottonwood grove where I spent my Junewas a great shock to me. If my tent had been pitched near the broadplains in which the meadow-lark delights, I might have wakened to theglorious song of this bird of the West. It is not a chorus, indeed, forone rarely hears more than a single performer, but it is a solo thatfully makes up for want of numbers, and amply satisfies the lover ofbird music, so strong, so sweet, so moving are his notes. 

But on my first morning in the grove, what was my dismay--I may almostsay despair--to find that the Western wood-pewee led the matins! Now, this bird has a peculiar voice. It is loud, pervasive, and in quality oftone not unlike our Eastern phoebe, lacking entirely the sweetplaintiveness of our wood-pewee. A pewee chorus is a droll and dismalaffair. The poor things do their best, no doubt, and they cannot preventthe pessimistic effect it has upon us. It is rhythmic, but not in theleast musical, and it has a weird power over the listener. This morninghymn does not say, as does the robin's, that life is cheerful, thatanother glorious day is dawning. It says, "Rest is over; another day oftoil is here; come to work. " It is monotonous as a frog chorus, butthere is a merry thrill in the notes of the amphibian which are entirelywanting in the song. If it were not for the light-hearted tremolo of thechewink thrown in now and then, and the loud, cheery ditty of the summeryellow-bird, who begins soon after the pewee, one would be almostsuperstitious about so unnatural a greeting to the new day. The eveningcall of the bird is different. He will sit far up on a dead twig of anold pine-tree, and utter a series of four notes, something like "do, mi, mi, do, " repeating them without pausing till it is too dark to see him, all the time getting lower, sadder, more deliberate, till one feelslike running out and committing suicide or annihilating the bird ofill-omen. 

I felt myself a stranger indeed when I reached this pleasant spot, andfound that even the birds were unfamiliar. No robin or bluebird greetedme on my arrival; no cheerful song-sparrow tuned his little pipe for mybenefit; no phœbe shouted the beloved name from the peak of the barn. Everything was strange. One accustomed to the birds of our EasternStates can hardly conceive of the country without robins in plenty; butin this unnatural corner of Uncle Sam's dominion I found but one pair. 

The most common song from morning till night was that of the summeryellow-bird, or yellow warbler. It was not the delicate little strain weare accustomed to hear from this bird, but a loud, clear carol, equal involume to the notes of our robin. These three birds, with the additionof a vireo or two, were our main dependence for daily music, though wewere favored occasionally by others. Now the Arkansas goldfinch utteredhis sweet notes from the thick foliage of the cottonwood-trees; then thecharming aria of the catbird came softly from the tangle of rose andother bushes; the black-headed grosbeak now and then saluted us from thetop of a pine-tree; and rarely, too rarely, alas! a passing meadow-larkfilled all the grove with his wonderful song. 

And there was the wren! He interested me from the first; for a wren is abird of individuality always, and his voice reminded me, in a feebleway, of the witching notes of the winter wren, the

 "Brown wren from out whose swelling throat Unstinted joys of music float. "

This bird was the house wren, the humblest member of his musical family;but there was in his simple melody the wren quality, suggestive of thethrilling performances of his more gifted relatives; and I found it andhim very pleasing. 

The chosen place for his vocal display was a pile of brush beside aclosed-up little cottage, and I suspected him of having designs uponthat two-roomed mansion for nesting purposes. After hopping all aboutthe loose sticks, delivering his bit of an aria a dozen times or more, in a most rapturous way, he would suddenly dive into certain secretpassages among the dead branches, when he was instantly lost to sight. Then, in a few seconds, a close watcher might sometimes see him passlike a shadow, under the cottage, which stood up on corner posts, dartout the farther side, and fly at once to the eaves. 

One day I was drawn from the house by a low and oft-repeated cry, like"Hear, hear, hear!" It was emphatic and imperative, as if someunfortunate little body had the business of the world on his shoulders, and could not get it done to his mind. I carefully approached thedisturbed voice, and was surprised to find it belonged to the wren, whowas so disconcerted at sight of me, that I concluded this particularsort of utterance must be for the benefit of his family alone. Later, that kind of talk, his lord-and-master style as I supposed, was the mostcommon sound I heard from him, and not near the cottage and the brushheap, but across the brook. I thought that perhaps I had displeased himby too close surveillance, and he had set up housekeeping out of myreach. Across the brook I could not go, for between "our side" and theother raged a feud, which had culminated in torn-up bridges and barbedwire protections. 

One day, however, I had a surprise. In studying another bird, I was ledaround to the back of the still shut-up cottage, and there I found, veryunexpectedly, an exceedingly busy and silent wren. He did singoccasionally while I watched him from afar, but in so low a tone that itcould not be heard a few steps away. Of course I understood thisunnatural circumspection, and on observing him cautiously, I saw thathe made frequent visits to the eaves of the cottage, the very spot Ihad hoped he would nest. Then I noted that he carried in food, and oncoming out he alighted on a dead bush, and sang under his breath. Here, then, was the nest, and all his pretense of scolding across the brookwas but a blind! Wary little rogue! Who would ever suspect a house wrenof shyness?

I had evidently done him injustice when I regarded the scolding as hisfamily manner, for here in his home he was quiet as a mouse, except whenhis joy bubbled over in trills. 

To make sure of my conclusions I went close to the house, and then forthe first time (to know it) I saw his mate. She came with food in herbeak, and was greatly disturbed at sight of her uninvited guest. Shestood on a shrub near me fluttering her wings, and there her anxiousspouse joined her, and fluttered his in the same way, uttering at thesame time a low, single note of protest. 

On looking in through the window, I found that the cottage was a mereshell, all open under the eaves, so that the birds could go in and outanywhere. The nest was over the top of a window, and the owner thereofran along the beam beside it, in great dudgeon at my impertinentstaring. Had ever a pair of wrens quarters so ample, --a whole cottage tothemselves? Henceforth, it was part of my daily rounds to peep in atthe window, though I am sorry to say it aroused the indignation of thebirds, and always brought them to the beam nearest me, to give me apiece of their mind. 

Bird babies grow apace, and baby wrens have not many inches to achieve. One day I came upon a scene of wild excitement: two wrenlings flyingmadly about in the cottage, now plump against the window, then tumblingbreathless to the floor, and two anxious little parents, trying in vainto show their headstrong offspring the way they should go, to theopenings under the eaves which led to the great out-of-doors. My face atthe window seemed to be the "last straw. " A much-distressed bird cameboldly up to me behind the glass, saying by his manner--and who knowsbut in words?--"How can you be so cruel as to disturb us? Don't you seethe trouble we are in?" He had no need of Anglo-Saxon (or even ofAmerican-English!). I understood him at once; and though exceedinglycurious to see how they would do it, I had not the heart to insist. Ileft them to manage their willful little folk in their own way. 

The next morning I was awakened by the jolliest wren music of theseason. Over and over the bird poured out his few notes, louder, madder, more rapturously than I had supposed he could. He had guided his familysafely out of their imprisoning four walls, I was sure. And so I foundit when I went out. Not a wren to be seen about the house, but softlittle "churs" coming from here and there among the shrubbery, and everyfew minutes a loud, happy song proclaimed that wren troubles were overfor the summer. Far in among the tangle of bushes and vines, I came uponhim, as gay as he had been of yore:--

 "Pausing and peering, with sidling head, As saucily questioning all I said; While the ox-eye danced on its slender stem, And all glad Nature rejoiced with them. "

The chewink is a curious exchange for the robin. When I noticed theabsence of the red-breast, whom--like the poor--we have always with us(at the East), I was pleased, in spite of my fondness for him, because, as every one must allow, he is sometimes officious in his attentions, and not at all reticent in expressing his opinions. I did miss his voicein the morning chorus, --the one who lived in the grove was not much of asinger, --but I was glad to know the chewink, who was almost a stranger. His peculiar trilling song was heard from morning till night; he camefamiliarly about the camp, eating from the dog's dish, and foraging forcrumbs at the kitchen door. Next to the wood-pewee, he was the mostfriendly of our feathered neighbors. 

He might be seen at any time, hopping about on the ground, one momentpicking up a morsel of food, and the next throwing up his head andbursting into song:--

 "But not for you his little singing, Soul of fire its flame is flinging, Sings he for himself alone, "

as was evident from the unconscious manner in which he uttered his notesbetween two mouthfuls, never mounting a twig or making a "performance"of his music. I have watched one an hour at a time, going about in hisjerky fashion, tearing up the ground and searching therein, exactlyafter the manner of a scratching hen. This, by the way, was a drolloperation, done with both feet together, a jump forward and a jerk backof the whole body, so rapidly one could hardly follow the motion, butthrowing up a shower of dirt every time. He had neither the grace northe dignity of our domestic biddy. 

Matter of fact as this fussy little personage was on the ground, takingin his breakfast and giving out his song, he was a different bird whenhe got above it. Alighting on the wren's brush heap, for instance, hewould bristle up, raising the feathers on head and neck, his red eyesglowing eagerly, his tail a little spread and standing up at a sharpangle, prepared for instant fight or flight, whichever seemed desirable. 

I was amused to hear the husky cry with which this bird expresses mostof his emotions, --about as nearly a "mew, " to my ears, as the catbirdexecutes. Whether frolicking with a comrade among the bushes, reprovinga too inquisitive bird student, or warning the neighborhood against somemonster like a stray kitten, this one cry seemed to answer for all hisneeds, and, excepting the song, was the only sound I heard him utter. 

Familiar as the chewink might be about our quarters, his own home waswell hidden, on the rising ground leading up to the mesa, --

 "An unkempt zone, Where vines and weeds and scrub oaks intertwine, "

which no one bigger than a bird could penetrate. Whenever I appeared inthat neighborhood, I was watched and followed by anxious and disturbedchewinks; but I never found a nest, though, judging from the conduct ofthe residents, I was frequently "very warm" (as the children say). 

About the time the purple aster began to unclose its fringed lids, andthe mariposa lily to unfold its delicate cups on the lowermesa, --nearly the middle of July, --full-grown chewink babies, in browncoats and streaked vests, made their appearance in the grove, and afterthat the whole world might search the scrub oaks and not a bird wouldsay him nay. 

 "All is silent now Save bell-note from some wandering cow, Or rippling lark-song far away. "

III. 

AN UPROAR OF SONG. 

The bird music of Colorado, though not so abundant as one could wish, issingularly rich in quality, and remarkable for its volume. At thethreshold of the State the traveler is struck by this peculiarity. Asthe train thunders by, the Western meadow-lark mounts a telegraph poleand pours out such a peal of melody that it is distinctly heard abovethe uproar of the iron wheels. 

This bird is preëminently the bird of the mesa, or high table-land ofthe region, and only to hear his rare song is well worth a journey tothat distant wonderland. Not of his music could Lucy Larcom say, as sheso happily does of our bird of the meadow, --

 "Sounds the meadow-lark's refrain Just as sad and clear. "

Nor could his sonorous song be characterized by Clinton Scollard'sexquisite verse, --

 "From whispering winds your plaintive notes were drawn. "

For the brilliant solo of Colorado's bird is not in the least like thecharming minor chant of our Eastern lark. So powerful that it is heardat great distances in the clear air, it is still not in the slightestdegree strained or harsh, but is sweet and rich, whether it be close atone's side in the silence, or shouted from the housetop in the tumult ofa busy street. It has, moreover, the same tender winsomeness that charmsus in our own lark song; something that fills the sympathetic listenerwith delight, that satisfies his whole being; a siren strain that helongs to listen to forever. The whole breadth and grandeur of the greatWest is in this song, its freedom, its wildness, the height of itsmountains, the sweep of its rivers, the beauty of its flowers, --all inthe wonderful performance. Even after months of absence, the bare memoryof the song of the mesa will move its lover to an almost painfulyearning. Of him, indeed, Shelley might truthfully say, --

 "Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, Thou scorner of the ground. "

Nor is the variety of the lark song less noteworthy than its quality. That each bird has a large _répertoire_ I cannot assert, for myopportunities for study have been too limited; but it is affirmed bythose who know him better, that he has, and I fully believe it. 

One thing is certainly true of nearly if not quite all of our nativebirds, that no two sing exactly alike, and the close observer soonlearns to distinguish between the robins and the song-sparrows of aneighborhood, by their notes alone. The Western lark seems even morethan others to individualize his utterances, so that constant surprisesreward the discriminating listener. During two months' bird-study inthat delightful cañon-hidden grove at the foot of Cheyenne Mountain, oneparticular bird song was for weeks an unsolved mystery. The strainconsisted of three notes in loud, ringing tones, which syllabledthemselves very plainly in my ear as "Whip-for-her. "

This unseemly, and most emphatic, demand came always from a distance, and apparently from the top of some tall tree, and it proved to be mosttantalizing; for although the first note invariably brought me out, opera-glass in hand, I was never able to come any nearer to a sight ofthe unknown than the sway of a twig he had just left. 

One morning, however, before I was up, the puzzling songster visited thelittle grove under my windows, and I heard his whole song, of which itnow appeared the three notes were merely the conclusion. Theperformance was eccentric. It began with a soft warble, apparently forhis sole entertainment, then suddenly, as if overwhelmed by memory ofwrongs received or of punishment deserved, he interrupted his tendermelody with a loud, incisive "Whip-for-her!" in a totally differentmanner. His nearness, however, solved the mystery; the ring of themeadow-lark was in his tones, and I knew him at once. I had notsuspected his identity, for the Western bird does not take much troubleto keep out of sight, and, moreover, his song is rarely less than six oreight notes in length. 

Another unique singer of the highlands is the horned lark. One morningin June a lively carriage party passing along the mountain side, on aroad so bare and bleak that it seemed nothing could live there, wasstartled by a small gray bird, who suddenly dashed out of the sandbeside the wheels, ran across the path, and flew to a fence on the otherside. Undisturbed, perhaps even stimulated, by the clatter of two horsesand a rattling mountain wagon, undaunted by the laughing and talkingload, the little creature at once burst into song, so loud as to beheard above the noisy procession, and so sweet that it silenced everytongue. 

"How exquisite! What is it?" we asked each other, at the end of thelittle aria. 

"It's the gray sand bird, " answered the native driver. 

"Otherwise the horned lark, " added the young naturalist, from hisbroncho behind the carriage. 

Let not his name mislead: this pretty fellow, in soft, gray-tintedplumage, is not deformed by "horns;" it is only two little tufts offeathers, which give a certain piquant, wide-awake expression to hishead, that have fastened upon him a title so incongruous. The nest ofthe desert-lover is a slight depression in the barren earth, nothingmore; and the eggs harmonize with their surroundings in color. The wholeis concealed by its very openness, and as hard to find, as thebobolink's cradle in the trackless grass of the meadow. 

Most persistent of all the singers of the grove beside the house was theyellow warbler, a dainty bit of featherhood the size of one's thumb. Onthe Atlantic coast his simple ditty is tender, and so low that it mustbe listened for; but in that land of "skies so blue they flash, " hesings it at the top of his voice, louder than the robin song as we knowit, and easily heard above the roar of the wind and the brawling of thebrook he haunts. 

Before me at this moment is the nest of one of these little sprites, which I watched till the last dumpy infant had taken flight, and thensecured with the branchlet it was built upon. It was in a young oak, notmore than twelve feet from the ground, occupying a perpendicular fork, where it was concealed and shaded by no less than sixteen twigs, standing upright, and loaded with leaves. The graceful cup itself, tojudge by its looks, might be made of white floss silk, --I have nocuriosity to know the actual material, --and is cushioned inside withdowny fibres from the cottonwood-tree. It is dainty enough for a fairy'scradle. 

The wood-pewee, in dress and manners nearly resembling his Easternbrother, "The pewee of the loneliest woods, Sole singer in the solitudes, "

has a strange and decidedly original utterance. While much louder andmore continuous, it lacks the sweetness of our bird's notes; indeed, itresembles in quality of tone the voice of our phœbe, or his beautifulrelative, the great-crested flycatcher. The Westerner has a great dealto say for himself. On alighting, he announces the fact by a singlenote, which is a habit also of our phœbe; he sings the sun up in themorning, and he sings it down in the evening, and he would be adelightful neighbor if only his voice were pleasing. But there is littlecharm in the music, for it is in truth a dismal chant, with the air andcheerfulness of a funeral dirge--a pessimistic performance that inspiresthe listener with a desire to choke him then and there. 

This bird's nest, as well as his song, is unlike that of our wood-pewee. Instead of a delicate, lichen-covered saucer set lightly upon ahorizontal crotch of a dead branch, --our bird's chosen home, --it is adeeper cup, fastened tightly upon a large living branch, and, at leastin a cottonwood grove, decorated on the outside with the fluffy cottonfrom the trees. 

Even the humming-bird, who contents himself in this part of the worldwith a modest hum, heard but a short distance away, at the foot of theRocky Mountains may almost be called a noisy bird. The first one Inoticed dashed out of a thickly leaved tree with loud, angry cries, swooped down toward me, and flew back and forth over my head, scoldingwith a hum which, considering his size, might almost be called a roar. Icould not believe my ears until my eyes confirmed their testimony. Thesound was not made by the wings, but was plainly a cry strong and harshin an extraordinary degree. 

The Western ruby-throat has other singularities which differentiate himfrom his Eastern brother. It is very droll to see one of his family takepart in the clamors of a bird mob, perching like his bigger fellows, and adding his excited cries to the notes of catbird and robin, chewinkand yellow-bird. Attracted one morning by a great bird outcry in a denseyoung oak grove across the road, I left my seat under the cottonwoodsand strolled over toward it. It was plain that some tragedy was in theair, for the winged world was in a panic. Two robins, the only pair inthe neighborhood, uttered their cry of distress from the top of thetallest tree; a catbird hopped from branch to branch, flirting his tailand mewing in agitation; a chewink or two near the ground jerkedthemselves about uneasily, adding their strange, husky call to thehubbub; and above the din rose the shrill voice of a humming-bird. Everyindividual had his eyes fixed upon the ground, where it was evident thatsome monster must be lurking. I expected a big snake at the very least, and, putting the lower branches aside, I, too, peered into thesemi-twilight of the grove. 

No snake was there; but my eyes fell upon an anxious little gray face, obviously much disturbed to find itself the centre of so much attention. As I appeared, this bugaboo, who had caused all the excitement, recognized me as a friend and ran toward me, crying piteously. It was avery small lost kitten!

I took up the stray little beastie, and a silence fell upon theassembly in the trees, which began to scatter, each one departing uponhis own business in a moment. But the humming-bird refused to be soeasily pacified; he was bound to see the end of the affair, and hefollowed me out of the grove, still vigorously speaking his mind aboutthe enemy in fur. I suspected that the little creature had wandered awayfrom the house on the hill above, and I went up to see. The hummeraccompanied me every step of the way, sometimes flying over my head, andagain alighting for a minute on a branch under which I passed. Not untilhe saw me deliver pussy into the hands of her own family, and return tomy usual seat in the grove, did he release me from surveillance and takehis leave. 

The yellow-breasted chat, the long-tailed variety belonging to the West, delivers his strange medley of "chacks" and whistles, and rattles andother indescribable cries, in a voice that is loud and distinct, as wellas sweet and rich. He is a bird of humor, too, with a mocking spirit notcommon in his race. One day, while sitting motionless in a hidden nook, trying to spy upon the domestic affairs of this elusive individual, Iwas startled by the so-called "laugh" of a robin, which was instantlyrepeated by a chat, unseen, but quite near. The robin, apparentlysurprised or interested, called again, and was a second time mocked. Then he lost his temper, and began a serious reproof to the levity ofhis neighbor, which ended in a good round scolding, as the saucy chatcontinued to repeat his taunting laugh. This went on till the red-breastflew away in high dudgeon. 

Why our little brothers in feathers are so much more boisterous thanelsewhere, "Up in the parks and the mesas wide, Under the blue of the bluest sky, "

has not, so far as I know, been discovered. 

Whether it be the result of habitual opposition to the strong windswhich, during the season of song, sweep over the plains every day, orwhether the exhilaration of the mountain air be the cause--who cantell?

IV. 

THE TRAGEDY OF A NEST. 

Near to the Camp, a little closer to beautiful Cheyenne Mountain, lay asmall park. It was a continuation of the grove, through which the brookcame roaring and tumbling down from the cañons above, and, being severalmiles from the town, it had never become a popular resort. A few windingpaths, and a rude bench here and there, were the only signs of man'sinterference with its native wildness; it was practically abandoned tothe birds--and me. 

The birds had full possession when I appeared on the scene, and though Idid my best to be unobtrusive, my presence was not so welcome as I couldhave wished. Every morning when I came slowly and quietly up the littlepath from the gate, bird-notes suddenly ceased; the grosbeak, pouringout his soul from the top of a pine-tree, dived down the other side; thetowhee, picking up his breakfast on the ground, scuttled behind thebushes and disappeared; the humming-bird, interrupted in her morning"affairs, " flew off over my head, scolding vigorously; only thevireo--serene as always--went on warbling and eating, undisturbed. 

Then I made haste to seek out an obscure spot, where I could sit andwait in silence, to see who might unwittingly show himself. 

I was never lonely, and never tired; for if--as sometimes happened--noflit of wing came near to interest me, there before me was beautifulCheyenne, with its changing face never twice alike, and its undyingassociations with its poet and lover, whose lonely grave makes itforever sacred to those who loved her. There, too, was the wonderful skyof Colorado, so blue it looked almost violet, and near at hand the"Singing Water, " whose stirring music was always inspiring. 

One morning I was startled from my reverie by a sudden cry, so loud andclear that I turned quickly to see what manner of bird had uttered it. The voice was peculiar and entirely new to me. First came a scoldingnote like that of an oriole, then the "chack" of a blackbird, and next asweet, clear whistle, one following the other rapidly and vehemently, asif the performer intended to display all his accomplishments in abreath. Cheyenne vanished like "the magic mountain of a dream, " blueskies were forgotten, the babbling brook unheard, every sense wasinstantly alert to see that extraordinary bird, --

 "Like a poet hidden, Singing songs unbidden. "

But he did not appear. Not a leaf rustled, not a twig bent, though thestrange medley kept on for fifteen minutes, then ceased as abruptly asit had begun, and not a whisper more could be heard. The whole thingseemed uncanny. Was it a bird at all, or a mere "wandering voice"? Itseemed to come from a piece of rather swampy ground, overgrown withclumps of willow and low shrubs; but what bird of earthly mould couldcome and go, and make no sign that a close student of bird ways coulddetect? Did he creep on the ground? Did he vanish into thin air?

Hours went by. I could not go, and my leafy nook was "struck throughwith slanted shafts of afternoon" before I reluctantly gave up that Ishould not see my enchanter that day, and slowly left the grove, themystery unexplained. 

Very early the next morning I was saluted by the same loud, clear callsnear the house. Had then the Invisible followed me home? I sprang up andhurried to the always open window. The voice was very near; but I couldnot see its author, though I was hidden behind blinds. 

This time the bird--if bird it were--indulged in a fuller _répertoire_. I seized pencil and paper, and noted down phonetically the differentnotes as they were uttered. This is the record: "Rat-t-t-t-t" (veryrapid); "quit! quit! quit!" (a little slower); "wh-eu! wh-eu!" (stillmore deliberately); "chack! chack! chack!" (quite slow); "crē, crē, crē, crē" (fast); "hu-way! hu-way!" (very sweet). Therewas a still more musical clause that I cannot put into syllables, then arattle exactly like castanets, and lastly a sort of "Kr-r-r! kr-r-r!" inthe tone of a great-crested flycatcher. While this will not express toone who has not heard it the marvelous charm of it all, it will at leastindicate the variety. 

Hardly waiting to dispose of breakfast, I betook myself to my "woodlandenchanted, " resolved to stay till I saw that bird. 

 "All day in the bushes The woodland was haunted. "

The voice was soon on hand, and once more I was treated to theincomparable recitative. 

This day, too, my patience was rewarded; the mystery was solved; I sawthe Unknown! While my eyes were fixed upon a certain bush before me, thesinger incautiously ventured too near the top of a twig, and I saw himplainly, standing almost upright, and vehemently chanting his fantasia, opening his mouth very wide with every call. I knew him at once, therogue! from having read of him; he was the yellow-breasted chat. It waswell, indeed, that I happened to be looking at that very spot, and thatI was quick in my observation; for in a moment he saw the blunder he hadmade, and slipped back down the stem, too late for his secret--I had himdown in black and white. 

From that time the little park was never lonely, nor did I spend muchtime dreaming over Cheyenne. The moment I appeared in the morning mylively host began his vocal gymnastics, while I sat spellbound, bewitched by the magic of his notes. In spite of being absorbed inlistening to him, I retained my faculties sufficiently to reflect thatthe chat had probably other employment than entertaining me, and thatdoubtless his object was to distract my attention from looking about me, or to reproach me for intruding upon his private domain. In either casethere was, of course, "A nest unseen Somewhere among the million stalks;"

and, delightful as I found the unseen bird, his nest was a treasure Iwas even more anxious to see. 

Not to disturb him more than necessary, I spent part of an eveningstudying up the nesting habits of the chat, --the long-tailed, yellow-breasted, as I found him to be, --and the next morning made athorough search through the swamp, looking into every bush and examiningevery thicket. An hour or two of this hard work satisfied me for theday, and I went home warm and tired, followed to the very door by themocking voice, triumphing, as it seemed, in my failure. 

The next day, however, fortune smiled upon me; I came upon a nest, notfar above the ground, among the stems of a clump of shrubs, whichexactly answered the description of the one I sought. Careful not to laya finger on it, I slightly parted the branches above, and looked in uponthree pinkish-white eggs, small in size and dainty as tinted pearls. Happy day, I thought, and the forerunner of happy to-morrows when Ishould watch

 "The green nest full of pleasant shade Wherein three speckled eggs were laid, "

and see and delight in the family life centring about it. 

To study a bird so shy required extraordinary precautions; I thereforesought, and found, a post of observation a long way off, where I couldlook through a natural vista among the shrubs, and with my glass bringthe bush and its precious contents into view. For greater seclusion inmy retreat, so that I should be as little conspicuous as possible, Idrew down a branch of the low tree over my seat, and fastened it with afine string to a stout weed below. Then I thought I had a perfectscreen; I devoutly hoped the birds would not notice me. 

Vain delusion! and labor as vain! Doubtless two pairs of anxious eyeswatched from some neighboring bush all my careful preparations, and thenand there two despairing hearts bade farewell to their lovely littlehome, abandoned it and its treasures to the spy and the destroyer, whichin their eyes I seemed to be. 

This conclusion was forced upon me by the experiences of the next fewdays. The birds absolutely would not approach the nest while I was inthe park. The first morning I sat motionless for nearly two hours, andnot a feather showed itself near that bush; it was plainly "tabooed. "During the next day the chat called from this side and that, movingabout in his wonderful way, without disturbing a twig, rustling a leaf, or flitting a wing--as silently, indeed, as if he were a spiritunclothed. 

While waiting for him to show himself, making myself as nearly a part ofnature about me as a mortal is gifted to do, I congratulated myself uponthe one good look I had secured, for, with all my efforts and all mywatching, I saw him but twice more all summer. The enigma of thatremarkable voice would have been maddening indeed, if I could not haveknown to whom it belonged. 

After several days of untiring observation I had but two glimpses torecord. On one occasion a chat alighted on the top sprig of the fatefulshrub, as if going to the nest, but almost on the instant vanished. Thesame day, a little later, one of these birds flitted into my view, without a sound. So perfectly silent were his movements that I shouldnot have seen him if he had not come directly before my eyes. He, orshe, for the pair are alike, alighted in a low bush and scrambled aboutas if in search of insects, climbing, not hopping. He stayed but a fewseconds and departed like a shadow, as he had come. 

On the tenth day after my discovery of the nest with its trio of eggs Iwent out as usual, for I could not abandon hope. In passing the nest Iglanced in and saw one egg; I could never see but one as I went by, but, not liking to go too near, I presumed that the other two were there, asI had always found them, and slipped quietly into my usual place. 

In a few moments the chat shouted a call so near that it fairly startledme. From that he went on to make his ordinary protest, but, as happenednearly every time, I was not able to see him. I saw something--somethingthat took my breath away. A shadowy form creeping stealthily through theshrubs five or six feet from me. It glided across the opening in front, and in a moment went to the bush I was watching. In silence, but withevident excitement, it moved about, approached the nest, and in a fewseconds flew quickly across the path in plain sight, holding in its mouthsomething white which was large for its beak. I was reminded of anEnglish sparrow carrying a piece of bread as big as his head, a sightfamiliar to every one. In a minute or two the same bird, or his twin, came to the nest again and disappeared on the other side. 

When I left my place to go home, I looked with misgivings into the neston which I had built so many hopes. Lo! it was empty!

Now I identified that stealthy visitor absolutely, but I shall nevername him. I have never heard him accused of nest-robbing, and I shallnot make the charge; for I am convinced that the chat had deserted thenest, and that this abstracter of eggs knew it, and simply took the goodthings the gods threw in his way--as would the best of us. 

After that unfortunate ending the chat disappeared from the little park;but a week later I came upon him, or his voice, in a private and rarelyvisited pasture down the road, where many clumps of small trees and muchlow growth offered desirable nesting-places. He made his usual protest, and feeling that I had been the cause of the tragedy of the first nest, though I had grieved over it as much as the owners could, the least Icould do, to show my regret, was to take myself and my curiosity out ofhis neighborhood. So I retired at once, and left the whole broad pastureto the incorrigible chat family, who, I hope, succeeded at last inenriching the world by half a dozen more of their bewitching kind. 

V. 

A FEAST OF FLOWERS. 

 When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, And folded green things in dim woods unclose Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes Into my veins and makes me kith and kin To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. 

 T. B. ALDRICH. 

My feast of flowers began before I entered Colorado. For half thebreadth of Kansas the banks of the railroad were heavenly blue withclustered blossoms of the spiderwort. I remember clumps of this flowerin my grandmother's old-fashioned garden, but my wildest dreams neverpictured miles of it, so profuse that, looking backward from the train, the track looked like threads of steel in a broad ribbon of blue. 

Through the same State, also, the Western meadow-larks kept us company, and I shall never again think of "bleeding Kansas, " but of smilingKansas, the home of the bluest of blossoms and the sweetest of singers. The latter half of the way through the smiling State was golden withyellow daisies in equal abundance, and beside them many other flowers. Beginning at noon, I counted twenty-seven varieties, so near the trackthat I could distinguish them as we rushed past. 

The Santa Fé road enters Colorado in a peculiarly desolate region. Flowers and birds appear to have stayed behind in Kansas, and no greenthing shows its head, excepting one dismal-looking bush, which servesonly to accentuate the poverty of the soil. As we go on, the mud isreplaced by sand and stones, from gravel up to big bowlders, and flowersbegin to struggle up through the unpromising ground. 

Nothing is more surprising than the amazing profusion of wild-flowerswhich this apparently ungenial soil produces. Of a certainty, ifColorado is not the paradise of wild-flowers, it is incomparably richerin them than any State east of the Mississippi River and north of "Masonand Dixon's Line. " To begin with, there is a marvelous variety. Since Ihave taken note of them, from about the 10th of June till nearly thesame date in July, I have found in my daily walk of not more than a mileor two, each time from one to seven new kinds. A few days I have foundseven, many times I have brought home four, and never has a day passedwithout at least one I had not seen before. That will average, at a lowestimate, about a hundred varieties of flowers in a month, and allwithin a radius of four miles. What neighborhood can produce a recordequal to this?

Then, again, the blossoms themselves are so abundant. Hardly a rootcontents itself with a single flower. The moccasin-plant is the only oneI have noticed as yet. One root will usually send up from one to a dozenstems, fairly loaded with buds--like the yucca--which open a few everyday, and thus keep in bloom for weeks. Or if there is but one stem, itwill be packed with buds from the ground to the tip, with new ones tocome out for every blossom that falls. 

One in the vase on my stand at this moment is of this sort. It is a stemthat sometimes attains a height of four or five feet. I think itlengthens as long as it is blossoming, and, to look at its preparations, that must be all summer. Every two or three inches of the stout stem isa whorl of leaves and buds and blossoms. Except the number of buds, itis all in fours. Opposite each other, making a cross, are four leaves, like a carnation leaf at first, but broadening and lengthening till itis two inches at the base and eight or ten long. Rising out of the axilof each leaf are buds, of graduated size and development up to the openblossom. That one stem, therefore, is prepared to open fresh flowersevery day for a long time. 

The plant is exquisitely beautiful, for the whole thing, from the stemto the flower petals, is of a delicate, light pea-green. The blossomopens like a star, with four stamens and four petals. The descriptionsounds mathematical, but the plant is graceful--a veritable symphony ingreen. 

A truly royal bouquet stands on my table--three spikes of yucca flowersin a tall vase, the middle one three feet high, bearing fifty blossomsand buds, of large size and a pink color; on its right, one a littleless in size, with long creamy cups fully open; and on the left another, set with round greenish balls, not so open as cups. They are distinctlydifferent, but each seems more exquisite than the other, and theirfragrance fills the room. In fact it is so overpowering that when atnight I close the door opening into the grove, I shut the vase and itscontents outside. 

This grand flower is the glory of the mesa or table-land at the foot ofthis range of the Rocky Mountains--the Cheyenne Range. Where nograss--that we name grass--will grow, where trees die for want of water, these noble spikes of flowers dot the bare plains in profusion. 

It is the rich possessor of three names. To the flower-lover it is theyucca; to the cultivator, or whosoever meddles with its leaves, it isthe Spanish-bayonet; to the utilitarian, who values a thing only as itis of use to him, it is the soap-weed--ignoble name, referring tocertain qualities pertaining to its roots. When we remember that thisflower is not the careful product of the garden, but of spontaneousgrowth in the most barren and hopeless-looking plains, we may wellregard it as a type of Colorado's luxuriance in these loveliest ofnature's gifts. 

Of a surly disposition is the blossom of a cactus--the "prickly-pear, "as we call it in Eastern gardens, where we cultivate it for its oddity, I suppose. When the sojourner in this land of flowers sees, opening onall sides of this inhospitable-looking plant, rich cream-colored cups, the size of a Jacqueminot bud, and of a rare, satiny sheen, she cannotresist the desire to fill a low dish with them for her table. 

Woe to her if she attempts to gather them "by hand"! Properly warned, she will take a knife, sever the flower from the pear (there is no stemto speak of), pick it up by the tip of a petal, carry it home in a paperor handkerchief, and dump it gently into water--happy if she does notfeel a dozen intolerable prickles here and there, and have to extract, with help of magnifying-glass and tweezers, as many needle-like barbsrankling in her flesh. She may as well have spared herself the trouble. The flowers possess the uncompromising nature of the stock from whichthey sprung; they will speedily shut themselves up like buds again--Ialmost believe they close with a snap--and obstinately refuse to displaytheir satin draperies to delight the eyes of their abductors. Thisunlovely spirit is not common among Colorado flowers; most of them go onblooming in the vase day after day. 

Remarkable are the places in which the flowers are found. Not only arethey seen in crevices all the way up the straight side of rocks, whereone would hardly think a seed could lodge, but beside the roads, betweenthe horses' tracks, and on the edge of gutters in the streets of a city. One can walk down any street in Colorado Springs and gather a bouquet, lovely and fragrant, choice enough to adorn any one's table. I oncecounted twelve varieties in crossing one vacant corner lot on theprincipal street. 

One of the richest wild gardens I know is a bare, open spot in acottonwood grove, part of it tunneled by ants, which run over it bymillions, and the rest a jumble of bowlders and wild rosebushes, impossible to describe. In this spot, unshaded from the burning sun, flourish flowers innumerable. Rosebushes, towering far above one's head, loaded with bloom; shrubs of several kinds, equally burdened by delicatewhite or pink blossoms; the ground covered with foot-high pentstemons, blue and lavender, in which the buds fairly get in each other's way; anda curious plant--primrose, I believe--which opens every morning, a fewinches from the ground, a large white blossom like the magnolia, turnsit deep pink, and closes it before night; several kinds of yellowflowers; wild geraniums, with a look of home in their daintily penciledpetals; above all, the wonderful golden columbine. I despair ofpicturing this grand flower to eyes accustomed to the insignificantcolumbine of the East. The blossom is three times the size of itsEastern namesake, growing in clumps sometimes three feet across, withthirty or forty stems of flowers standing two and a half feet high. Inhue it is a delicate straw color, sometimes all one tint, sometimes withoutside petals of snowy white, and rarely with those outsiders oflavender. It is a red-letter day when the flower-lover comes upon aclump of the lavender-leaved columbine. Far up in the mountains is foundstill another variety of this beautiful flower, with outside petals of arich blue. This, I believe, is the State flower of Colorado. 

I am surprised at the small number of flowers here with which I amfamiliar. I think there are not more than half a dozen in all thisextraordinary "procession of flowers" that I ever saw before. Inconsequence, every day promises discoveries, every walk is exciting asan excursion into unknown lands, each new find is a fresh treasure. 

VI. 

A CINDERELLA AMONG FLOWERS. 

 Like torches lit for carnival, The fiery lilies straight and tall Burn where the deepest shadow is; Still dance the columbines cliff-hung, And like a broidered veil outflung The many-blossomed clematis. 

 SUSAN COOLIDGE. 

A rough, scraggy plant, with unattractive, dark-green foliage and aprofusion of buds standing out at all angles, is, in July, almost theonly growing thing to be seen on the barren-looking mesa around ColoradoSprings. Anything more unpromising can hardly be imagined; the coarsestthistle is a beauty beside it; the common burdock has a grace of growthfar beyond it; the meanest weed shows a color which puts it to shame. Yet if the curious traveler pass that way again, late in the afternoon, he shall find that "Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one ofthese. " He will see the bush transfigured; its angular form hidden undera mass of many pointed stars of snowy whiteness, with clusters of palegold stamens. Then will stand revealed the "superb mentzelia, " a trueCinderella, fit only for ignominious uses in the morning, but a suitablebride for the fairy prince in the evening. 

To look at the wide-stretching table-lands, where, during its season, this fairy-story transformation takes place daily, so burned by the sun, and swept by the wind, that no cultivated plant will flourish on it, onewould never suspect that it is the scene of a brilliant "procession offlowers" from spring to fall. "There is always something going onoutdoors worth seeing, " says Charles Dudley Warner, and of no part ofthe world is this more true than of these apparently desolate plains atthe foot of the Rocky Mountains. Rich is the reward of the dailystroller, not only in the inspiration of its pure, bracing air, thesongs of its meadow-larks, and the glory of its grand mountain view, butin its charming flower show. 

This begins with the anemone, modest and shy like our own, but threetimes as big, and well protected from the sharp May breezes by a soft, fluffy silk wrap. Then some day in early June the walker shall notegroups of long, sword-shaped leaves, rising in clusters here and therefrom the ground. He may not handle them with impunity, for they arestrong and sharp-edged, and somewhat later the beauty they are set toguard is revealed. A stem or two, heavy and loaded with hard greenballs, pushes itself up among them day by day, till some morning hestands spellbound before the full-blown bells of the yucca, cream-tintedor pink, and fragrant as the breath of summer. 

Before the Nature-lover is tired of feasting his eyes upon that statelyflower, shall begin to unfold the crumpled draperies of the greatMexican poppy, dotting the hillsides and the mesa with white, as far asthe eye can reach. Meanwhile, the earth itself shall suddenly turn topink, and a close look disclose a tiny, low-growing blossom, sweet asthe morning, with the glow of the sunrise in its face; a little bunch ofcrazy-looking stamens, and tiny snips of petals standing out at allangles, and of all shades on one stem, from white to deep red; the wholeno bigger than a gauzy-winged fly, and shaped not unlike one, with adelicious odor that scents the air. 

Next day--or next week--wandering over the pathless barrens, theobserver may come upon a group of cream-colored satin flowers, wide opento the sun, innocent looking and most tempting to gather. But the greatfleshy leaves from which they spring give warning; they belong to thecactus family, and are well armed to protect their treasures from thevagrant hand. The walker--if he be wise--will content himself withlooking, nor seek a nearer acquaintance. 

While these royal beauties are adorning the highlands, others, perhapseven more lovely, are blooming in the cañons, under the trees, andbeside the noisy brooks. First, there is a "riot of roses"--the onlyexpression that adequately suggests the profusion of these beautifulflowers. They grow in enormous bushes, far above one's head, inimpenetrable thickets, extending for yards each way. 

 "Rose hedges Abloom to the edges. "

Every country road is walled in by them; every brookside is glorified bytheir rich masses of color; and no rocky wall is so bare but here andthere a tiny shoot finds root, and open its rosy bloom. All thesebushes, from the low-growing sort that holds its mottled and shadedpetals three inches above the ground, to that whose top one cannotreach, are simply loaded with blossoms of all shades, from nearly whiteto deepest rose-color, filling the air with perfume. 

The first time one comes upon this lavish display, he--or more probablyshe--picks a spray from the first bush; she cannot resist the nextvariety, and before she knows it her arms are full, with temptations asstrong as ever before her. She may at last, like "H. H. , " take home herroses by the carriage load, or, overwhelmed by their numbers, leave themall on their stems, and enjoy them in mass. 

Shyly hiding under the taller shrubs beside the running water, theexperienced seeker will find the gilia, one of the gems of Colorado'sbouquet. This plant consists of one slender stem two feet or more tall, swayed by every breeze, and set for several inches of its length withdaintiest blossoms, --

 "Like threaded rubies on its stem. "

They are like fairy trumpets, in many shades, from snow white to deeprose, and brilliant scarlet, with great variety of delicate markingvisible only under a glass. The stem is so sticky that the flowers mustbe arranged as they are gathered; for they cling to each other moreclosely than the fabled "brother, " and an attempt to separate them willresult in torn flowers. 

Anything more exquisite than a vase of gilias alone is rarely seen. Thebuds are as lovely as the blossoms; new ones open every day, and eventhe faded ones are not unsightly; their petals are simply turnedbackward a little. One minute every morning spent in snipping offblossoms that are past their prime insures the happy possessor abouquet that is a joy forever, even in memory; lovely and fresh, inever-changing combinations of color and form. 

Some day shall be made memorable to the enthusiast by the discovery of aflower which should be named for "H. H. , "--the one which looked socharming from the moving train that her winning tongue brought the ironhorse to a pause while it was gathered, "root and branch, " for herdelectation. Finding the gorgeous spike of golden blossoms without acommon name, she called it--most happily--the golden prince's feather. It is to be presumed that it has an unwieldy scientific cognomen in thebotanies; but I heard of no common one, except that given by the poet. 

While this royal flower is still in bloom, may be found the mariposa, orbutterfly lily, small and low on the burning mesa, but more generous insize, and richer of hue, in the shaded cañons. 

 "Like a bubble borne in air Floats the shy Mariposa's bell, "

says Susan Coolidge in her beautiful tribute to her beloved friend andpoet. The three petals of this exquisite flower form a graceful cup ofdiffering degrees of violet hue, some being nearly white, with the colormassed in a rich, deep-toned crescent, low down at the heart of eachpetal, while others are glowing in the most regal purple. 

All these weeks, too, have been blossoming dozens, yes, hundreds ofothers; every nook and corner is full; every walk brings surprises. Someof our most familiar friends are wanting. One is not surprised that themost common wayside flower of that golden region is the yellow daisy, orsunflower it is called; but she remembers fondly our fields of whitedaisies, and clumps of gay little buttercups, and she longs forcheery-faced dandelions beside her path. A few of the latter she mayfind, much larger and more showy than ours; but these--it is said inColorado Springs--are all from seed imported by an exile for health'ssake, who pined for the flowers of home. 

Several peculiarities of Colorado flowers are noteworthy. Some havegummy or sticky stems, like the gilia, already mentioned, and othersagain are "clinging, " by means of a certain roughness of stem and leaf. The mentzelia is of this nature; half a dozen stalks can with difficultybe separated; and they seem even to attract any light substance, likefringe or lace, holding so closely to it that they must be torn apart. 

Many of the prettiest flowers are, like our milkweed, nourished by amilky juice, and when severed from the parent stem, not only weep thickwhite tears, which stain the hands and the garments, but utterly refuseto subsist on water, and begin at once to droop. Is it the vitality inthe air which forces even the plants to eccentricities? Or can it bethat they have not yet been subdued into uniformity like ours? Are theyunconventional--nearer to wild Nature? So queries an unscientific loverof them all. 

This slight sketch of a few flowers gives hardly a hint of the richnessof Colorado's flora. No words can paint the profusion and the beauty. Ihave not here even mentioned some of the most notable: the great goldencolumbine, the State flower, to which our modest blossom is aninsignificant weed;

 "The fairy lilies, straight and tall, Like torches lit for carnival;"

the primrose, opening at evening a disk three or four inches across, loaded with richest perfume, and changed to odorless pink beforemorning; exquisite vetches, with bloom like our sweet pea, and of morethan fifty varieties; harebells in great clumps, and castilleias whichdot the State with scarlet; rosy cyclamens "on long, lithe stems thatsoar;" and mertensias, whose delicate bells, blue as a baby's eyes, turnday by day to pink; the cleome, which covers Denver with a purple veil;the whole family of pentstemons, and hundreds of others. 

An artist in Colorado Springs, who has given her heart, almost her life, to fixing in imperishable color the floral wealth about her, has paintedover three hundred varieties of Colorado wild-flowers, and her list isstill incomplete. 

It is not pleasant to mar this record of beauty, but one thing must bementioned. The luxuriance of the flowers is already greatly diminishedby the unscrupulousness of the tourists who swarm in the flower season, especially, I am sorry to say, women. Not content with filling theirhands with flowers, they fill their arms and even their carriage, ifthey have one. Moreover, the hold of the plant on the light, sandy soilis very slight; and the careless gatherer, not provided with knife orscissors, will almost invariably pull the root with the flower, thustotally annihilating that plant. When one witnesses such greediness, andremembers that these vandals are in general on the wing, and cannot stayto enjoy what they have rifled, but will leave it all to be thrown outby hotel servants the next morning, he cannot wonder at the indignationof the residents toward the traveler, nor that "No admittance" noticesare put up, and big dogs kept, and that "tourist" is a name synonymouswith "plunderer, " and bitterly hated by the people. 

I have seen a party of ladies--to judge by their looks--with arms sofull of the golden columbine that it seemed they could not hold anotherflower, whose traveling dress and equipments showed them to be meretransient passers through, who could not possibly make use of so many. Half a dozen blossoms would have given as much pleasure as half ahundred, and be much more easily cared for, besides leaving a few fortheir successors to enjoy. The result is, of course, plain to see: a fewmore years of plunder, and Colorado will be left bare, and lose half hercharm. 

One beautiful place near Colorado Springs, Glen Eyrie, belonging toGeneral Palmer, was generously left open for every one to enjoy bydriving through; but, incredible as it seems, his hospitality was soabused, his lovely grounds rifled, not only of wild-flowers, but even ofcultivated flowers and plants, that he was forced at last to put upnotices that the public was allowed to "drive through _withoutdismounting_. "

VII. 

CLIFF-DWELLERS IN THE CAÑON. 

 Glad With light as with a garment it is clad Each dawn, before the tardy plains have won One ray; and often after day has long been done For us, the light doth cling reluctant, sad to leave its brow. 

 H. H. 

The happiest day of my summer in the Rocky Mountains was passed in theheart of a mountain consecrated by the songs and the grave of its lover, "H. H. , "--beautiful Cheyenne, the grandest and the most graceful of itsrange. 

Camp Harding, my home for the season, in its charming situation, hasalready been described. The fortunate dwellers in this "happy valley"were blessed with two delectable walks, "down the road" and "up theroad. " Down the road presented an enchanting procession of flowers, which changed from day to day as the season advanced; to-day the scarletcastilleia, or painter's-brush, flaming out of the coarse grasses;to-morrow the sand lily, lifting its dainty face above the bare sand;next week the harebell, in great clumps, nodding across the field, andnext month the mariposa or butterfly lily, just peeping from behind thebrush, --with dozens of others to keep them company. As one went on, thefields grew broader, the walls of the mesa lowered and drew apart, tillthe cañon was lost in the wide, open country. 

This was the favorite evening walk, with all the camp dogs inattendance, --the nimble greyhound, the age-stiffened and sedate spaniel, the saucy, ill-bred bull-terrier, and the naïve baby pug. The loiteringwalk usually ended at the red farmhouse a mile away, and the walkersreturned to the camp in the gloaming, loaded with flowers, saturatedwith the delicious mountain air, and filled with a peace that passethwords. 

Up the road led into the mountain, under thick-crowding trees, betweenfrowning rocks, ever growing higher and drawing nearer together, tillthe carriage road became a burro track, and then a footpath; now thisside the boisterous brook, then crossing by a log or two to the otherside, and ending in the heart of Cheyenne in a _cul-de-sac_, whose highperpendicular sides could be scaled only by flights of steps builtagainst the rocks. From high up the mountain, into this immense rockybasin, came the brook Shining Water, in seven tremendous leaps, eachmore lovely than the last, and reached at bottom a deep stone bowl, which flung it out in a shower of spray forbidding near approach, andkeeping the rocks forever wet. 

The morning walk was up the road, in the grateful shade of the trees, between the cool rocks, beside the impetuous brook. This last was anever fresh source of interest and pleasure, for nothing differs morewidely from an Eastern brook than its Western namesake. The terms weapply to our mountain rivulets do not at all describe a body of water onits way down a Rocky Mountain valley. It does not murmur, --it roars andbrawls; it cannot ripple, --it rages and foams about the bowlders thatlie in its path. The name of a Colorado mountain stream, the RoaringFork, exactly characterizes it. 

One warm morning in June, a small party from the camp set out for a walkup the road. By easy stages, resting here and there on convenient rocks, beguiled at every step by something more beautiful just ahead, theypenetrated to the end of the cañon. Of that party I was one, and it wasmy first visit. I was alternately in raptures over the richness ofcolor, the glowing red sandstone against the violet-blue sky, andthrilled by the grandeur of places which looked as if the wholemountain had been violently rent asunder. 

But no emotion whatever, no beauty, no sublimity even, can make meinsensible to a bird note. Just at the entrance to the Pillars ofHercules, two towering walls of perpendicular rock that approach eachother almost threateningly, as if they would close up and crush betweenthem the rash mortal who dared to penetrate farther, --in that impressivespot, while I lingered, half yielding to a mysterious hesitation aboutentering the strange portal, a bird song fell upon my ear. It was aplaintive warble, that sounded far away up the stern cliff above myhead. It seemed impossible that a bird could find a foothold, or be inany way attracted by those bare walls, yet I turned my eyes, and latermy glass that way. 

At first nothing was to be seen save, part way up the height, anexquisite bit of nature. In a niche that might have been scooped out bya mighty hand, where scarcely a ray of sunlight could penetrate, and nohuman touch could make or mar, were growing, and blooming luxuriantly, agolden columbine, Colorado's pride and glory, a rosy star-shaped blossomunknown to me, and a cluster of

 "Proud cyclamens on long, lithe stems that soar. "

When I could withdraw my eyes from this dainty wind-sown garden, Isought the singer, who proved to be a small brown bird with aconspicuous white throat, flitting about on the face of the rock, apparently quite at home, and constantly repeating his few notes. Hissong was tender and bewitching in its effect, though it was reallysimple in construction, being merely nine notes, the first utteredtwice, and the remaining eight in descending chromatic scale. 

Now and then the tiny songster disappeared in what looked like a slightcrack in the wall, but instantly reappeared, and resumed his sirenstrains. Spellbound I stood, looking and listening; but alas! the hourwas late, the way was long, and others were waiting; I needs must tearmyself away. "To-morrow I will come again, " I said, as I turned back. "To-morrow I shall be here alone, and spend the whole day with the cañonwren. "

Then we retraced our steps of the morning, lingering among the pleasantgroves of cottonwood, oak, and aspen; pausing to admire the cactusdisplay of gorgeous yellow, with petals widespread, yet so wedded totheir wildness that they resented the touch of a human hand, resistingtheir ravisher with needle-like barbs, and then sullenly drawingtogether their satin petals and refusing to open them more; past greatthickets of wild roses, higher than our heads and fragrant as themorning; beside close-growing bushes, where hid the

 "Golden cradle of the moccasin flower, "

and the too clever yellow-breasted chat had mocked and defied me; and sohome to the camp. 

At an early hour the next morning, the carriage of my hostess set medown at the entrance of Cheyenne Cañon proper, with the impedimentanecessary for a day's isolation from civilization. I passed through thegate, --for even this grand work of nature is claimed as privateproperty; but, happily, through good sense or indifference, "improvements" have not been attempted, and one forgets the gate and thegate-keeper as soon as they are passed. 

Entering at that unnatural hour, and alone, leaving the last human beingbehind, --staring in astonishment, by the way, at my unprecedentedproceeding, --I began to realize, as I walked up the narrow path, thatthe whole grand cañon, winding perhaps a mile into the heart of thismost beautiful of the Rocky Mountains, was mine alone for three hours. Indeed, when the time arrived for tourists to appear, so little did Iconcern myself with them that they might have been a procession ofspectres passing by; so, in effect, the cañon was my solitary possessionfor nine blissful hours. 

The delights of that perfect day cannot be put into words. Strolling upthe path, filled with an inexpressible sense of ownership and seclusionfrom all the world, I first paused in the neighborhood of the smallcliff-dweller whose music had charmed me, and suggested the enchantingidea of spending a day with him in his retreat. I seated myself oppositethe forbidding wall where the bird had hovered, apparently so much athome. All was silent; no singer to be heard, no wren to be seen. Thesun, which turned the tops of the Pillars to gold as I entered, creptdown inch by inch till it beat upon my head and clothed the rock in ared glory. Still no bird appeared. High above the top of the rocks, inthe clear thin air of the mountain, a flock of swallows wheeled andsported, uttering an unfamiliar two-note call; butterflies flutteredirresolute, looking frivolous enough in the presence of the eternalhills; gauzy-winged dragonflies zigzagged to and fro, their intense bluegleaming in the sun. The hour for visitors drew near, and my precioussolitude was fast slipping away. 

Slowly then I walked up the cañon, looking for my singer. Humming-birdswere hovering before the bare rock as before a flower, perhaps sippingthe water-drops that here and there trickled down, and large hawks, likemere specks against the blue, were soaring, but no wren could I see. Atlast I reached the end, with its waterfall fountain. Close within thisceaseless sprinkle, on a narrow ledge that was never dry, was placed--Ihad almost said grew--a bird's nest; whose, it were needless to ask. OneAmerican bird, and one only, chooses perpetual dampness for hisenvironment, --the American dipper, or water ouzel. 

Here I paused to muse over the spray-soaked cradle on the rock. In thisstrange place had lived a bird so eccentric that he prefers not only tonest under a continuous shower, through which he must constantly pass, but to spend most of his life in, not on the water. Shall we call him afool or a philosopher? Is the water a protection, and from what? Has"damp, moist unpleasantness" no terrors for his fine feathers? Where nowwere the nestlings whose lullaby had been the music of the fallingwaters? Down that sheer rock, perhaps into the water at its foot, hadbeen the first flight of the ouzel baby. Why had I come too late to seehim?

But the hours were passing, while I had not seen, and, what was worse, had not heard my first charmer, the cañon wren. Leaving these perplexingconundrums unsolved, I turned slowly back down the walk, to resume mysearch. Perhaps fifty feet from the ouzel nest, as I lingered to admirethe picturesque rapids in the brook, a slight movement drew my attentionto a little projection on a stone, not six feet from me, where a smallchipmunk sat pertly up, holding in his two hands, and eagerlynibbling--was it, could it be a strawberry in this rocky place?

Of course I stopped instantly to look at this pretty sight. I judged himto be a youngster, partly because of his evident fearlessness of hishereditary enemy, a human being; more on account of the saucy way inwhich he returned my stare; and most, perhaps, from the appearance ofabsorbing delight, in which there was a suggestion of the unexpected, with which he discussed that sweet morsel. Closely I watched him as heturned the treasure round and round in his deft little paws, and at lastdropped the rifled hull. Would he go for another, and where? In aninstant, with a parting glance at me, to make sure that I had not moved, he scrambled down his rocky throne, and bounded in great leaps over thepath to a crumpled paper, which I saw at once was one of the bags withwhich tourists sow the earth. But its presence there did not rouse in myfurry friend the indignation it excited in me. To him it was atreasure-trove, for into it he disappeared without a moment'shesitation; and almost before I had jumped to the conclusion that itcontained the remains of somebody's luncheon, he reappeared, holding inhis mouth another strawberry, bounded over the ground to his formerseat, and proceeded to dispose of that one, also. The scene was socharming and his pleasure so genuine that I forgave the carelesstraveler on the spot, and only wished I had a kodak to secure apermanent picture of this unique strawberry festival. 

As I loitered along, gazing idly at the brook, ever listening andlonging for the wren song, I was suddenly struck motionless by a loud, shrill, and peculiar cry. It was plainly a bird voice, and it seemed tocome almost from the stream itself. It ceased in a moment, and thenfollowed a burst of song, liquid as the singing of the brook, andenchantingly sweet, though very low. I was astounded. Who could singlike that up in this narrow mountain gorge, where I supposed the cañonwren was king?

At the point where I stood, a straggling shrub, the only one for rods, hung over the brink. I silently sank to a seat behind it, lest I disturbthe singer, and remained without movement. The baffling carol went onfor some seconds, and for the only time in my life I wished I could puta spell upon brook-babble, that I might the better hear. 

Cautiously I raised my glass to my eyes, and examined the rocks acrossthe water, probably eight feet from me. Then arose again that strangecry, and at the same instant my eye fell upon a tiny ledge, level withthe water, and perhaps six inches long, on which stood a smallfellow-creature in great excitement. He was engaged in what I shouldcall "curtsying"; that is, bending his leg joint, and dropping his plumplittle body for a second, then bobbing up to his fullest height, repeating the performance constantly, --looking eagerly out over thewater the while, evidently expecting somebody. This was undoubtedly thebird's manner of begging for food, --a very pretty and well-bred way, too, vastly superior to the impetuous calls and demands of some youngbirds. The movement was "dipping, " of course, and he was the dipper, orouzel baby, that had been cradled in that fountain-dashed nest by thefall. He was not long out of it, either; for though fully dressed in hismodest slate-color, with white feet, and white edgings to many of hisfeathers, he had hardly a vestige of a tail. He was a winsome baby, forall that. 

While I studied the points of the stranger, breathless lest he shoulddisappear before my eyes, he suddenly burst out with the strange call Ihad heard. It was clearly a cry of joy, of welcome, for out of thewater, up on to the ledge beside him, scrambled at that moment agrown-up ouzel. He gave one poke into the wide-open mouth of the infant, then slipped back into the water, dropped down a foot or more, climbedout upon another little shelf in the rock, and in a moment the songarose. I watched the singer closely. The notes were so low and somingled with the roar of the brook that even then I should not have beencertain he was uttering them if I had not seen his throat and mouthdistinctly. The song was really exquisite, and as much in harmony withthe melody of the stream as the voice of the English sparrow is with thecity sounds among which he dwells, and the plaintive refrain of themeadow-lark with the low-lying, silent fields where he spends his days. 

But little cared baby ouzel for music, however ravishing. What to hismind was far more important was food, --in short, worms. His prettybegging continued, and the daring notion of attempting a perilousjourney over the foot of water that separated him from his papa plainlyentered his head. He hurried back and forth on the brink with growingagitation, and was seemingly about to plunge in, when the singer againentered the water, brought up another morsel, and then stood on theledge beside the eager youngling, "dipping" occasionally himself, andshowing every time he winked--as did the little one, also--snowy-whiteeyelids, in strange contrast to the dark slate-colored plumage. 

This aesthetic manner of discharging family duties, alternating food forthe body with rapture of the soul, continued for some time, probablyuntil the young bird had as much as was good for him; and then supplieswere cut off by the peremptory disappearance of the purveyor, whoplunged with the brook over the edge of a rock, and was seen no more. 

A little later a grown bird appeared, that I supposed at first was thereturning papa, but a few moments' observation convinced me that it wasthe mother; partly because no song accompanied the work, but morebecause of the entirely different manners of the new-comer. Filling thecrop of that importunate offspring of hers was, with this Quaker-dresseddame, a serious business that left no time for rest or recreation. Twocharmed hours I sat absorbed, watching the most wonderful evolutions onecould believe possible to a creature in feathers. 

At the point where this little drama was enacted, the brook rushed overa line of pebbles stretching from bank to bank, lying at all angles andof all sizes, from six to ten inches in diameter. Then it ran five orsix feet quietly, around smooth rocks here and there above the water, and ended by plunging over a mass of bowlders to a lower level. The birdbegan by mounting one of those slippery rounded stones, and thrustingher head under water up to her shoulders. Holding it there a fewseconds, apparently looking for something, she then jumped in where theturmoil was maddest, picked an object from the bottom, and, returning tothe ledge, gave it to baby. 

The next moment, before I had recovered from my astonishment at thisfeat of the ouzel, she ran directly up the falls (which, though nothigh, were exceedingly lively), being half the time entirely underwater, and exactly as much at her ease as if no water were there; thoughhow she could stand in the rapid current, not to speak of walkingstraight up against it, I could not understand. 

Often she threw herself into the stream, and let it carry her down, likea duck, a foot or two, while she looked intently on the bottom, thensimply walked up out of it on to a stone. I could see that her plumagewas not in the least wet; a drop or two often rested on her back whenshe came out, but it rolled off in a moment. She never even shookherself. The food she brought to that eager youngling every few minuteslooked like minute worms, doubtless some insect larvæ. 

Several times this hard-working mother plunged into the brook where itwas shallow, ran or walked down it, half under water, and stopped on thevery brink of the lower fall, where one would think she could not evenstand, much less turn back and run up stream, which she did freely. Thislooked to me almost as difficult as for a man to stand on the brink ofNiagara, with the water roaring and tumbling around him. Now and thenthe bird ran or flew up, against the current, and entirely under water, so that I could see her only as a dark-colored moving object, and thencame out all fresh and dry beside the baby, with a mouthful of food. Ishould hardly dare to tell this, for fear of raising doubts of myaccuracy, if the same thing had not been seen and reported by othersbefore me. Her crowning action was to stand with one foot on each of twostones in the middle and most uproarious part of the little fall, leanfar over, and deliberately pick something from a third stone. 

All this was no show performance, even no frolic, on the part of theouzel, --it was simply her every-day manner of providing for the needs ofthat infant; and when she considered the duty discharged for the time, she took her departure, very probably going at once to the care of asecond youngster who awaited her coming in some other niche in therocks. 

Finding himself alone again, and no more dainties coming his way, theyoung dipper turned for entertainment to the swift-running streamlet. Hewent down to the edge, stepping easily, never hopping; but when theshallow edge of the water ran over his pretty white toes, he hastilyscampered back, as if afraid to venture farther. The clever little roguewas only coquetting, however, for when he did at last plunge in heshowed himself very much at home. He easily crossed a turbulent bit ofthe brook, and when he was carried down a little he scrambled withouttrouble up on a stone. All the time, too, he was peering about afterfood; and in fact it was plain that his begging was a mere pretense, --hewas perfectly well able to look out for himself. Through the whole ofthese scenes not one of the birds, old or young, had paid the slightestattention to me, though I was not ten feet from them. 

During the time I had been so absorbed in my delightful study ofdomestic life in the ouzel family, the other interesting resident of thecañon--the elusive cañon wren--had been forgotten. Now, as I noticedthat the day was waning, I thought of him again, and, tearing myselfaway from the enticing picture, leaving the pretty baby to his ownamusements, I returned to the famous Pillars, and planted myself beforemy rock, resolved to stay there till the bird appeared. 

No note came to encourage me, but, gazing steadily upward, after a timeI noticed something that looked like a fly running along the wall. Bringing my glass to my eyes, I found that it was a bird, and one of thewhite-throated family I so longed to see. She--for her silence and herways proclaimed her sex--was running about where appeared to be nothingbut perpendicular rock, flirting her tail after the manner of her race, as happy and as unconcerned as if several thousand feet of sheer cliffdid not stretch between her and the brook at its foot. Her movementswere jerky and wren-like, and every few minutes she flitted into a tinycrevice that seemed, from my point of view, hardly large enough to admiteven her minute form. She was dressed like the sweet singer ofyesterday, and the door she entered so familiarly was the same I hadseen him interested in. I guessed that she was his mate. 

The bird seemed to be gathering from the rock something which sheconstantly carried into the hole. Possibly there were nestlings in thatsnug and inaccessible home. To discover if my conjectures were true, Iredoubled my vigilance, though it was neck-breaking work, for so narrowwas the cañon at that point that I could not get far enough away for amore level view. 

Sometimes the bustling little wren flew to the top of the wall, abouttwenty feet above her front door, as it looked to me (it may have beenten times that). Over the edge she instantly disappeared, but in a fewminutes returned to her occupation on the rock. Upon the earth beneathher sky parlor she seemed never to turn her eyes, and I began to fearthat I should get no nearer view of the shy cliff-dweller. 

Finally, however, the caprice seized the tantalizing creature ofdescending to the level of mortals, and the brook. Suddenly, while Ilooked, she flung herself off her perch, and fell--down--down--down--disappearing at last behind a clump of weeds at the bottom. Was shekilled? Had she been shot by some noiseless air-gun? What had becomeof the tiny wren? I sprang to my feet, and hurried as near as theintervening stream would allow, when lo! there she was, lively and fussyas ever, running about at the foot of the cliff, searching, searchingall the time, ever and anon jumping up and pulling from the rocksomething that clung to it. 

When the industrious bird had filled her beak with material that stuckout on both sides, which I concluded to be some kind of rock moss, shestarted back. Not up the face of that blank wall, loaded as she was, but by a strange path that she knew well, up which I watched her wendingher way to her proper level. This was a cleft between two solid bodiesof rock, where, it would seem, the two walls, in settling together fortheir lifelong union, had broken and crumbled, and formed between them asort of crack, filled with unattached bowlders, with crevices andpassages, sometimes perpendicular, sometimes horizontal. Around andthrough these was a zigzag road to the top, evidently as familiar tothat atom of a bird as Broadway is to some of her fellow-creatures, andmore easily traversed, for she had it all to herself. 

The wren flew about three feet to the first step of her upward passage, then ran and clambered nearly all the rest of the way, darting behindjutting rocks and coming out the other side, occasionally flying a footor two; now pausing as if for an observation, jerking her tail uprightand letting it drop back, wren-fashion, then starting afresh, and sogoing on till she reached the level of her nest, when she flew acrossthe (apparent) forty or fifty feet, directly into the crevice. In aminute she came out, and without an instant's pause flung herself downagain. 

I watched this curious process very closely. The wren seemed to closeher wings; certainly she did not use them, nor were they in the leastspread that I could detect. She came to the ground as if she were astone, as quickly and as directly as a stone would have fallen; but justbefore touching the ground she spread her wings, and alighted lightly onher feet. Then she fell to her labor of collecting what I suppose wasnesting material, and in a few minutes started up again by theroundabout road to the top. Two hours or more, with gradually stiffeningneck, I spent with the wren, while she worked constantly and silently, and not once during all that time did the singer appear. 

What the scattering parties of tourists, who from time to time passedme, thought of a silent personage sitting in the cañon alone, staringintently up at a blank wall of rock, I did not inquire. Perhaps that shewas a verse-writer seeking inspiration; more likely, however, a harmlesslunatic musing over her own fancies. 

I know well what I thought of them, from the glimpses that came to me asI sat there; some climbing over the sharp-edged rocks, in tight boots, delicate kid gloves, and immaculate traveling costumes, and panting forbreath in the seven thousand feet altitude; others uncomfortably seatedon the backs of the scraggy little burros, one of whom was so interestedin my proceedings that he walked directly up and thrust his long, inquiring ears into my very face, spite of the resistance of his rider, forcing me to rise and decline closer acquaintance. One of themelancholy procession was loaded with a heavy camera, another equippedwith a butterfly net; this one bent under the weight of a big basket ofluncheon, and that one was burdened with satchels and wraps andumbrellas. All were laboriously trying to enjoy themselves, but not onelingered to look at the wonder and the beauty of the surroundings. Ipitied them, one and all, feeling obliged, as no doubt they did, to "seethe sights;" tramping the lovely cañon to-day, glancing neither to rightnor left; whirling through the Garden of the Gods to-morrow; painfullyclimbing the next day the burro track to the Grave, the sacred pointwhere

 "Upon the wind-blown mountain spot Chosen and loved as best by her, Watched over by near sun and star, Encompassed by wide skies, she sleeps. "

Alas that one cannot quote with truth the remaining lines!

 "And not one jarring murmur creeps Up from the plain her rest to mar. "

For now, at the end of the toilsome passage, that place which should besacred to loving memories and tender thoughts, is desecrated by placardsand picnickers, defaced by advertisements, strewn with thewrapping-paper, tin cans, and bottles with which the modernglobe-trotter marks his path through the beautiful and sacred scenes innature. [1]

In this uncomfortable way the majority of summer tourists spend dayafter day, and week after week; going home tired out, with no new ideagained, but happy to be able to say they have been here and there, beheld this cañon, dined on that mountain, drank champagne in such apass, and struggled for breath on top of "the Peak. " Their eyes mayindeed have passed over these scenes, but they have not _seen_ onething. 

Far wiser is he (and more especially she) who seeks out a corner obscureenough to escape the eyes of the "procession, " settles himself in it, and spends fruitful and delightful days alone with nature; never hastingnor rushing; seeing and studying the wonders at hand, but avoiding"parties" and "excursions;" valuing more a thorough knowledge of onecañon than a glimpse of fifty; caring more to appreciate the beauties ofone mountain than to scramble over a whole range; getting into suchperfect harmony with nature that it is as if he had come into possessionof a new life; and from such an experience returning to his homerefreshed and invigorated in mind and body. 

Such were my reflections as the sun went down, and I felt, as I passedout through the gate, that I ought to double my entrance fee, so muchhad my life been enriched by that perfect day alone in Cheyenne Cañon. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Since the above was written, I am glad to learn that, because of this vandalism, the remains of "H. H. " have been removed tothe cemetery at Colorado Springs. ]

IN THE MIDDLE COUNTRY. 

 For all the woods are shrill with stress of song, Where soft wings flutter down to new-built nests, And turbulent sweet sounds are heard day long, As of innumerable marriage feasts. 

 CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH. 

VIII. 

AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. 

Four o'clock in the morning is the magical hour of the day. I do notoffer this sentiment as original, nor have I the slightest hope ofconverting any one to my opinion; I merely state the fact. 

For years I had known it perfectly well; and fortified by my knowledge, and bristling with good resolutions, I went out every June determined torise at that unnatural hour. Nothing is easier than to get up at fouro'clock--the night before; but when morning comes, the point of view ischanged, and all the arguments that arise in the mind are on the otherside; sleep is the one thing desirable. The case appeared hopeless. Appeals from Philip drunk (with sleep) to Philip sober did not seem toavail; for whatever the latter decreed, the former would surely disobey. 

But last June I found my spur; last summer I learned to get up witheagerness, and stay up with delight. This was effected by means of analarm, set by the evening's wakefulness, that had no mercy on themorning's sleepiness. The secret is--a present interest. What may begoing on somewhere out of sight and hearing in the world is a matter ofperfect indifference; what is heard and seen at the moment is anargument that no one can resist. 

I got my hint by the accident of some shelled corn being left on theground before my window, and so attracting a four o'clock party, consisting of blackbirds, blue jays, and doves. I noticed the corn, butdid not think of the pleasure it would give me, until the next morning, when I was awakened about four o'clock by loud and excited talk inblackbird tones, and hurried to the window, to find that I had half thebirds of the neighborhood before me. 

Most in number, and most noisy, were the common blackbirds, who just atthat time were feeding their young in a grove of evergreens back of thehouse, where they had set up their nurseries in a crowd, as is theircustom. It is impossible to take this bird seriously, he is soirresistibly ludicrous. His manners always suggest to me the peculiardrollery of the negro; one of the old-fashioned sort, as we read of him, and I promised myself some amusement from the study of him at shortrange; I was not disappointed. 

My greeting as I took my seat at the open window, unfortunately withoutblinds to screen me, was most comical. A big pompous fellow turned hiswicked-looking white eye upon me, drew himself into a queer humped-upposition, with all his feathers on end, and apparently by a strongeffort _squeezed_ out a husky and squeaky, yet loud cry of two notes, which sounded exactly like "Squee-gee!"

I was so astounded that I laughed in his face; at which he repeated itwith added emphasis, then turned his back on me, as unworthy of noticeaway up in my window, and gave his undivided attention to a speciallylarge grain of corn which had been unearthed by a meek-looking neighbor, and appropriated by him, in the most lordly manner. His bearing at themoment was superb and stately in a degree of which only a bird who walksis capable; one cannot be dignified who is obliged to hop. 

I thought his greeting was a personal one to show contempt--which it didemphatically--to the human race in general, and to me in particular, butI found later that it was the ordinary blackbird way of being offensive;it was equivalent to "Get out!" or "Shut up!" or some other of the curtand rude expressions in use by bigger folk than blackbirds. 

If a bird alighted too near one of these arrogant fellows on the ground, he was met with the same expletive, and if he was about the same sizehe "talked back. " The number and variety of utterances at their commandwas astonishing; I was always being surprised with a new one. Now ablackbird would fly across the lawn, making a noise exactly like a boy'stin trumpet, and repeating it as long as he was within hearing, regarding it, seemingly, as an exceptionally great feat. Again one wouldseize a kernel of corn, burst out with a convulsive cry, as if he werechoking to death, and fly off with his prize, in imminent danger of hislife, as I could not but feel. 

The second morning a youngster came with his papa to the feast, and hewas droller, if possible, than his elders. He followed his parentaround, with head lowered and mouth wide open, fairly bawling in a loudyet husky tone. 

The young blackbird does not appear in the glossy suit of his parents. His coat is rusty in hue, and his eye is dark, as is proper in youth. Heis not at all backward in speaking his mind, and his sole desire at thisperiod of his life being food, he demands it with an energy andpersistence that usually insures success. 

In making close acquaintance with them, one cannot help longing toprescribe to the whole blackbird family something to clear theirbronchial tubes; every tone is husky, and the student involuntarilyclears his own throat as he listens. 

I was surprised to find the blackbirds so beautiful. When the sun wasnear setting, and struck across the grass its level rays, they werereally exquisite; their heads a brilliant metallic blue, and all back ofthat rich bronze or purple, all over as glossy as satin. The littledames are somewhat smaller, and a shade less finely dressed than theirbumptious mates; but that does not make them meek--far from it! and theyare not behind their partners in eccentric freaks. Sometimes one wouldapparently attempt a joke by starting to fly, and passing so near thehead of one of the dignitaries on the ground that he would involuntarilystart and "duck" ingloriously. On one occasion a pair were workingpeaceably together at the corn, when she flirted a bit of dirt so thatit flew toward him. He dashed furiously at her. She gave one hop whichtook her about a foot away, and then it appeared that she coveted akernel of corn that was near him when the offense was given, for sheinstantly jumped back and pounced upon it as if she expected to beannihilated. He ran after her and drove her off, but she kept her prize. 

Eating one of those hard grains was no joke to anybody without teeth, and it was a serious affair to one of the blackbirds. He took it intohis beak, dropped both head and tail, and gave his mind to the crackingof the sweet morsel. At this time he particularly disliked to bedisturbed, and the only time I saw one rude to a youngster was whenstruggling with this difficulty. While feeding the nestlings, they brokethe kernels into bits, picked up all the pieces, filling the beak thewhole length, and then flew off with them. 

But they were not always allowed to keep the whole kernel. They weregenerally attended while on the ground by a little party of thieves, ready and waiting to snatch any morsel that was dropped. These were, ofcourse, the English sparrows. They could not break corn, but they likedit for all that, so they used their wits to secure it, and of sharpnessthese street birds have no lack. The moment a blackbird alighted on thegrass, a sparrow or two came down beside him, and lingered around, watching eagerly. Whenever a crumb dropped, one rushed in and snatchedit, and instantly flew from the wrath to come. 

The sparrows had not been at this long before some of the wiseblackbirds saw through it, and resented it with proper spirit. One ofthem would turn savagely after the sparrow who followed him, and theknowing rascal always took his departure. It was amusing to see ablackbird working seriously on a grain, all his faculties absorbed inthe solemn question whether he should succeed in cracking his nut, whiletwo or three feathered pilferers stood as near as they dared, anxiouslywaiting till the great work should be accomplished, the hard shellshould yield, and some bits should fall. 

About five days after the feast was spread, the young came out in force, often two of them following one adult about on the grass, running afterhim so closely that he could hardly get a chance to break up the kernel;indeed, he often had to fly to a tree to prepare the mouthfuls for them. The young blackbird has not the slightest repose of manner; nor, forthat matter, has the old one either. The grown-ups treated the youngwell, almost always; they never "squee-gee'd" at them, never touchedthem in any way, notwithstanding they were so insistent in begging thatthey would chase an adult bird across the grass, calling madly all thetime, and fairly force him to fly away to get rid of them. 

Once two young ones got possession of the only spot where corn was left, and so tormented their elders who came that they had to dash in andsnatch a kernel when they wanted one. One of the old ones danced aroundthese two babies in a little circle a foot in diameter, the infantsturning as he moved, and ever presenting open beaks to him. It was oneof the funniest exhibitions I ever saw. After going around half a dozentimes, the baffled blackbird flew away without a taste. 

When the two had driven every one else off the ground by theirimportunities, one of them plucked up spirit to try managing the cornfor himself. Like a little man he stopped bawling, and began exercisinghis strength on the sweet grain. Upon this his neighbor, instead offollowing his example, began to beg of him! fluttering his wings, putting up his beak, and almost pulling the corn out of the mouth of thepoor little fellow struggling with his first kernel!

Sometimes a young one drove his parent all over a tree with hissupplications. Higher and higher would go the persecuted, with histormentor scrambling, and half flying after, till the elder absolutelyflew away, much put out. 

Long before this time the corn had been used up. But I could not bear tolose my morning entertainment, for all these things took place betweenfour and six A. M. --so I made a trip to the village, and boughta bag of the much desired dainty, some handfuls of which I scatteredevery night after birds were abed, ready for the sunrise show. Blackbirds were not the only guests at the feast; there were thedoves, --mourning, or wood-doves, --who dropped to the grass, serene as asummer morning, walking around in their small red boots, with mincingsteps and fussy little bows. Blue jays, too, came in plenty, selectedeach his grain and flew away with it. Robins, seeing all the excitement, came over from their regular hunting-ground, but never finding anythingso attractive as worms, they soon left. 

The corn feast wound up with a droll excitement. One day a child fromthe house took her doll out in the grass to play, set it up against atree trunk, and left it there. It had long light hair which stood outaround the head, and it did look rather uncanny, but it was amusing tosee the consternation it caused. Blue jays came to trees near by, andtalked in low tones to each other; then one after another swooped downtoward it; then they all squawked at it, and finding this of no avail, they left in a body. 

The robins approached cautiously, two of them, calling constantly, "he!he! he!" One was determined not to be afraid, and came nearer andnearer, till within about a foot of the strange object and behind it, when suddenly he started as though shot, jumped back, and both flew in apanic. 

Soon after this a red-headed woodpecker alighted on the trunk of theelm, preparatory to helping himself to a grain of corn. The moment hiseyes fell upon madam of the fluffy hair, he burst out with a loud, rapidwoodpecker "chitter, " gradually growing higher in key and louder intone. The blue jay flew down from the nest across the yard, and anothercame from behind the house; both perched near and stared at him, andthen began to talk in low tones. A robin came hastily over and gazed atthe usually silent red-head, and apparently it was to all as strange aperformance as it was to me, or possibly they recognized that it was acry of warning against danger. 

After he had us all aroused, the bird suddenly fell to silence, andresumed his ordinary manner, but he did not go after corn. I suppose theharangue was addressed to the doll. 

That was the last scene in the first act of the corn feast, for theblackbirds had become so numerous and so noisy that they made morninghideous to the whole household, and I stopped the supplies for severaldays, till these birds ceased to expect anything, and so came no more, and then I spread a fresh breakfast-table for more interesting guests, whose manners and customs I studied for weeks. 

I was invariably startled wide awake on these mornings by a bird note, and sprang up, to see at one glance that

 "Day had awakened all things that be, The lark and the thrush, and the swallow free, "

and that my party was already assembled; one or two cardinals--orredbirds, as they are often called--on the grass, with the usualattendance of English sparrows, and the red-headed woodpecker in theelm, surveying the lawn, and considering which of the trespassers heshould fall upon. It was the work of one minute to get into my wraps andseat myself, with opera glass, at the wide-open window. 

My first discovery made, however, during the blackbird reign, was thatfour o'clock is the most lovely part of the day. All the dust of humanaffairs having settled during the hours of sleep, the air is fresh andsweet, as if just made; and generally, just before sunrise, the foliageis at perfect rest, --the repose of night still lingering, the world ofnature as well as of men still sleeping. 

The first thing one naturally looks for, as birds begin to waken, is amorning chorus of song. True bird-lovers, indeed, long for it with alonging that cannot be told. But alas, every year the chorus iswithdrawing more and more to the woods, every year it is harder to finda place where English sparrows are not in possession; and it is one ofthe most grievous sins of that bird that he spoils the song, even whenhe does not succeed in driving out the singer. A running accompanimentof harsh and interminable squawks overpowers the music of meadow-larkand robin, and the glorious song of the thrush is fairly murdered by it. One could almost forgive the sparrow his other crimes, if he would onlylie abed in the morning; if he would occasionally listen, and notforever break the peace of the opening day with his vulgar brawling. Butthe subject of English sparrows is maddening to a lover of native birds;let us not defile the magic hour by considering it. 

The most obvious resident of the neighborhood, at four o'clock in themorning, was always the golden-winged woodpecker, or flicker. Though hescorned the breakfast I offered, having no vegetarian proclivities, hedid not refuse me his presence. I found him a character, and an amusingstudy, and I never saw his tribe so numerous and so much at home. 

Though largest in size of my four o'clock birds, and most fullyrepresented (always excepting the English sparrows), the golden-wing wasnot in command. The autocrat of the hour, the reigning power, was quitea different personage, although belonging to the woodpecker family. Itwas a red-headed woodpecker who assumed to own the lawn and be master ofthe feast. This individual was marked by a defect in plumage, and hadbeen a regular caller since the morning of my arrival. During theblackbird supremacy over the corn supply he had been hardly more than aspectator, coming to the trunk of the elm and surveying the assembly ofblue jays, doves, blackbirds, and sparrows with interest, as one looksdown upon a herd with whom he has nothing in common. But when thosebirds departed, and the visitors were of a different character, mostlycardinals, with an occasional blue jay, he at once took the place hefelt belonged to him--that of dictator. 

The Virginia cardinal, a genuine F. F. V. , and a regular attendant at mycorn breakfast, was a subject of special study with me; indeed, it waslargely on his account that I had set up my tent in that part of theworld. I had all my life known him as a tenant of cages, and it struckme at first as very odd to see him flying about freely, like other wildbirds. No one, it seemed to me, ever looked so out of place as thisfellow of elegant manners, aristocratic crest, and brilliant dress, hopping about on the ground with his exaggerated little hops, tail heldstiffly up out of harm's way, and uttering sharp "tsips. " One could nothelp the feeling that he was altogether too fine for this commonwork-a-day existence; that he was intended for show; and that a gildedcage was his proper abiding-place, with a retinue of human servants tominister to his comfort. Yet he was modest and unassuming, and appearedreally to enjoy his life of hard work; varying his struggles with akernel of hard corn on the ground, where his color shone out like aflower against the green, with a rest on a spruce-tree, where

 "Like a living jewel he sits and sings;"

and when he had finished his frugal meal, departing, if nothing hurriedhim, with a graceful, loitering flight, in which each wing-beat seemedto carry him but a few inches forward, and leave his body poised, aninfinitesimal second for another beat. With much noise of flutteringwings he would start for some point, but appear not to care much whetherhe got there. He was never in haste unless there was something to hurryhim, in which he differed greatly from some of the fidgety, restlesspersonages I have known among the feathered folk. 

The woodpecker's way of making himself disagreeable to thisdistinguished guest, was to keep watch from his tree (an elm overlookingthe supply of corn) till he came to eat, and then fly down, aiming forexactly the spot occupied by the bird on the ground. No one, howeverbrave, could help "getting out from under, " when he saw this tricoloredwhirlwind descending upon him. The cardinal always jumped aside, thendrew himself up, crest erect, tail held at an angle of forty-fivedegrees, and faced the woodpecker, calm, but prepared to stand up forhis right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of his breakfast. Sometimesthey had a little set-to, with beaks not more than three inches apart, the woodpecker making feints of rushing upon his _vis-à-vis_, and thecardinal jumping up ready to clinch, if a fight became necessary. Itnever went quite so far as that, though they glared at each other, andthe cardinal uttered a little whispered "ha!" every time he sprang up. 

The Virginian's deliberate manner of eating made peace important to him. He took a grain of hard corn in his mouth, lengthwise; then working hissharp-edged beak, he soon succeeded in cutting the shell of the kernelthrough its whole length. From this he went on turning it with histongue, and still cutting with his beak, till the whole shell rolled outof the side of his mouth in one long piece, completely cleared from itssavory contents. 

The red-head, on the contrary, took his grain of corn to a branch, orsometimes to the trunk of a tree, where he sought a suitable crevice inthe bark or in a crotch, placed his kernel, hammered it well in tillfirm and safe, and then proceeded to pick off pieces and eat themdaintily, one by one. Sometimes he left a kernel there, and I saw howfirmly it was wedged in, when the English sparrow discovered his store, fell upon it, and dug it out. It was a good deal of work for astrong-billed, persistent sparrow to dislodge a grain thus placed. Butof course he never gave up till he could carry it off, probably becausehe saw that some one valued it; for since he was unable to crack a grainthat was whole, it must have been useless to him. Sometimes thewoodpecker wedged the kernel into a crevice in the bark of the trunk, then broke it up, and packed the pieces away in other niches; and I haveseen an English sparrow go carefully over the trunk, picking out andeating these tidbits. That, or something else, has taught sparrows toclimb tree trunks, which they do, in the neighborhood I speak of, withas much ease as a woodpecker. I have repeatedly seen them go the wholelength of a tall elm trunk; proceeding by little hops, aided by thewings, and using the tail for support almost as handily as a woodpeckerhimself. 

The red-head's assumption of being monarch of all he surveyed did notend with the breakfast-table; he seemed to consider himself guardian andprotector of the whole place. One evening I was drawn far down on thelawn by a peculiar cry of his. It began with a singular performancewhich I have already described, a loud, rapid "chit-it-it-it-it, "increasing in volume and rising in pitch, as though he were workinghimself up to some deed of desperation. In a few minutes, however, heappeared to get his feelings under control, and dropped to a single-notecry, often repeated. It differed widely from his loud call, "wok! wok!wok!" still more from the husky tones of his conversation with others ofhis kind; neither was it like the war-cries with which he intimated toanother bird that he was not invited to breakfast. I thought there mustbe trouble brewing, especially as mingled with it was an occasionalexcited "pe-auk!" of a flicker. When I reached the spot, I found acurious party, consisting of two doves and three flickers, assembled onone small tree, with the woodpecker on an upper branch, as thoughaddressing his remarks to them. 

As I drew near the scene of the excitement, the doves flew, and then thegolden-wings; but the red-head held his ground, though he stopped hiscries when he saw help coming. In vain I looked about for the cause ofthe row; everything was serene. It was a beautiful quiet evening, andnot a child, nor a dog, nor anything in sight to make trouble. The treestood quite by itself, in the midst of grass that knew not the clatterof the lawn-mower. 

I stood still and waited; and I had my reward, for after a few minutes'silence I saw a pair of ears, and then a head, cautiously lifted abovethe grass, about fifteen feet from the tree. The mystery was solved; itwas a cat, whom all birds know as a creature who will bear watching whenprowling around the haunts of bird families. I am fond of pussy, but Ideprecate her taste for game, as I do that of some other hunters, wiserif not better than she. I invited her to leave this place, where sheplainly was unwelcome, by an emphatic "scat!" and a stick tossed herway. She instantly dropped into the grass and was lost to view; and asthe woodpecker, whose eyes were sharper and his position better thanmine, said no more, I concluded she had taken the hint and departed. 

IX. 

THE LITTLE REDBIRDS. 

When the little redbirds began to visit the lawn there were excitingtimes. At first they ventured only to the trees overlooking it; and thegayly dressed father who had them in charge reminded me of nothing somuch as a fussy young mother. He was alert to the tips of his toes, andexcited, as if the whole world was thirsting for the life of thosefrowzy-headed youngsters in the maple. His manner intimated that nobodyever had birdlings before; indeed, that there never had been, or couldbe, just such a production as that young family behind the leaves. Whilethey were there, he flirted his tail, jerked himself around, creststanding sharply up, and in every way showed his sense of importance andresponsibility. 

As for the young ones, after they had been hopping about the branches aweek or so, and papa had grown less madly anxious if one looked at them, they appeared bright and spirited, dressed in the subdued and tastefulhues of their mother, with pert little crests and dark beaks. They werenot allowed on the grass, and they waited patiently on the tree whiletheir provider shelled a kernel and took it up to them. The cardinalbaby I found to be a self-respecting individual, who generally waits inpatience his parents' pleasure, though he is not too often fed. He isnot bumptious nor self-assertive, like many others; he rarely teases, and is altogether a well-mannered and proper young person. After awhile, as the youngsters learned strength and speed on the wing, theycame to the table with the grown-ups, and then I saw there were threespruce young redbirds, all under the care of their gorgeous papa. 

No sooner did they appear on the ground than trouble began with theEnglish-sparrow tribe. The grievance of these birds was that they couldnot manage the tough kernels. They were just as hungry as anybody, andjust as well-disposed toward corn, but they had not sufficient strengthof beak to break it. They did not, however, go without corn, for allthat. Their game was the not uncommon one of availing themselves of thelabor of others; they invited themselves to everybody's breakfast-table, though, to be sure, they had to watch their chances in order to secure amorsel, and escape the wrath of the owner thereof. 

The cardinal was at first a specially easy victim to this plot. He tookthe whole matter most solemnly, and was so absorbed in the work, that ifa bit dropped, in the process of separating it from the shell, as oftenhappened, he did not concern himself about it till he had finished whathe had in his mouth, and then he turned one great eye on the ground, forthe fragments which had long before been snatched by sparrows and gonedown sparrow throats. The surprise and the solemn stare with which he"could hardly believe his eyes" were exceedingly droll. After a while hesaw through their little game, and took to watching, and when a sparrowappeared too much interested in his operations, he made a feint of goingfor him, which warned the gamin that he would better look out forhimself. 

It did not take these sharp fellows long to discover that the youngredbird was the easier prey, and soon every youngster on the ground wasattended by a sparrow or two, ready to seize upon any fragment thatfell. The parent's way of feeding was to shell a kernel and then give itto one of the little ones, who broke it up and ate it. From waiting forfallen bits, the sparrows, never being repulsed, grew bolder, andfinally went so far as actually to snatch the corn out of the youngcardinals' beaks. Again and again did I see this performance: a sparrowgrab and run (or fly), leaving the baby astonished and dazed, lookingas if he did not know exactly what had happened, but sure he was in someway bereaved. 

One day, while the cardinal family were eating on the grass, the motherof the brood came to a tree near by. At once her gallant spouse flew upthere and offered her the mouthful he had just prepared, then returnedto his duties. She was rarely seen on the lawn, and I judged that shewas sitting again. 

Sometimes, when the youngsters were alone on the ground, I heard alittle snatch of song, two or three notes, a musical word or two of verysweet quality. The woodpecker, autocrat though he assumed to be, did notat first interfere with the young birds; but as they became more andmore independent and grown up, he began to consider them fair game, andto come down on them with a rush that scattered them; not far, however;they were brave little fellows. 

At last, after four weeks of close attention, the cardinal made up hismind that his young folk were babies no longer, and that they were ableto feed themselves. I was interested to see his manner of intimating tohis young hopefuls that they had reached their majority. When one beggedof him, in his gentle way, the parent turned suddenly and gave him aslight push. The urchin understood, and moved a little farther off; butperhaps the next time he asked he would be fed. They learned the lesson, however, and in less than two days from the first hint they becamealmost entirely independent. 

One morning the whole family happened to meet at table. The mother camefirst, and then the three young ones, all of whom were trying their bestto feed themselves. At last came their "natural provider;" and one ofthe juveniles, who found the grains almost unmanageable, could not helpbegging of him. He gently but firmly drove the pleader away, as if hesaid, "My son, you are big enough to feed yourself. " The little oneturned, but did not go; he stood with his back toward his parent, andwings still fluttering. Then papa flew to a low branch of thespruce-tree, and instantly the infant followed him, still begging withquivering wings. Suddenly the elder turned, and I expected to see himannihilate that beggar, but, to my surprise, he fed him! He could nothold out against him! He had been playing the stern parent, but couldnot keep it up. It was a very pretty and very human-looking performance. 

A day or two after the family had learned to take care of themselves, the original pair, the parents of the pretty brood, came and wenttogether to the field, while the younglings appeared sometimes in alittle flock, and sometimes one alone; and from that time they were tobe rated as grown-up and educated cardinals. A brighter or prettier trioI have not seen. I am almost positive there was but one family ofcardinals on the place; and if I am right, those youngsters had beenfour weeks out of the nest before they took charge of their own foodsupply. From what I have seen in the case of other young birds, I haveno doubt that is the fact. 

X. 

THE CARDINAL'S NEST. 

While I had been studying four o'clock manners, grave and gay, otherthings had happened. Most delightful, perhaps, was my acquaintance witha cardinal family at home. From the first I had looked for a nest, andhad suffered two or three disappointments. One pair flaunted theirintentions by appearing on a tree before my window, "tsipping" with alltheir might; she with her beak full of hay from the lawn below; he, eager and devoted, assisting by his presence. The important andconsequential manner of a bird with building material in mouth isamusing. She has no doubt that what she is about to do is the very mostmomentous fact in the "Sublime Now" (as some college youth has it). Ofcourse I dropped everything and tried to follow the pair, at a distancegreat enough not to disturb them, yet to keep in sight at least thedirection they took, for they are shy birds, and do not like to be spiedupon. But I could not have gauged my distance properly; for, though Ithought I knew the exact cedar-tree she had chosen, I found, to mydismay and regret afterward, that no sign of a nest was there, orthereabout. 

Another pair went farther, and held out even more delusive hopes; theyactually built a nest in a neighbor's yard, the family in the housemaintaining an appearance of the utmost indifference, so as not to alarmthe birds till they were committed to that nest. For so little doesmadam regard the labor of building, and so fickle is she in her fancies, that she thinks nothing of preparing at least two nests before shesettles on one. The nest was made on a big branch of cedar, perhapsseven feet from the ground, --a rough affair, as this bird always makes. In it she even placed an egg, and then, for some undiscovered reason, itwas abandoned, and they took their domestic joys and sorrows elsewhere. 

But now, at last, word came to me of an occupied nest to be seen at acertain house, and I started at once for it. It was up a shady countrylane, with a meadow-lark field on one side, and a bobolink meadow on theother. The lark mounted the fence, and delivered his strange sputteringcry, --the first I had ever heard from him (or her, for I believe this isthe female's utterance). But the dear little bobolink soared around myhead, and let fall his happy trills; then suddenly, as Lowelldelightfully pictures him, --

 "Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops, Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink, And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops, A decorous bird of business, who provides For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. "

Nothing less attractive than a cardinal family could draw me away fromthese rival allurements, but I went on. 

The cardinal's bower was the prettiest of the summer, built in aclimbing rose which ran riot over a trellis beside a kitchen door. Thevine was loaded with buds just beginning to unfold their green wraps toflood the place with beauty and fragrance, and the nest was so carefullytucked away behind the leaves that it could not be seen from the front. Whether from confidence in the two or three residents of the cottage, orbecause the house was alone so many hours of the day, --the occupantsbeing students, and absent most of the time, --the birds had taken noaccount of a window which opened almost behind them. From that windowone could look into, and touch, if he desired, the little family. But noone who lived there did desire (though I wish to record that one was aboy of twelve or fourteen, who had been taught respect for the liveseven of birds), and these birds became so accustomed to their humanobservers that they paid no attention to them. 

The female cardinal is so dainty in looks and manner, so delicate in allher ways, that one naturally expects her to build at least a neat andcomely nest, and I was surprised to see a rough-looking affair, similarto the one already mentioned. This might be, in her case, because it wasthe third nest she had built that summer. One had been used for thefirst brood. The second had been seized and appropriated to their ownuse by another pair of birds. (As this was told me, and I cannot vouchfor it, I shall not name the alleged thief. ) This, the third, was madeof twigs and fibres of bark, --or what looked like that, --and wasstrongly stayed to the rose stems, the largest of which was not biggerthan my little finger, and most of them much smaller. 

On my second visit I was invited into the kitchen to see the family inthe rosebush. It appeared that this was "coming-off" day, and one littlecardinal had already taken his fate in his hands when I arrived, soonafter breakfast. He had progressed on the journey of life about onefoot; and a mere dot of a fellow he looked beside his parents, with adowny fuzz on his head, which surrounded it like a halo, and no sign ofa crest. The three nestlings still at home were very restless, crowding, and almost pushing each other out. They could well spare theirelder brother, for before he left he had walked all over them at hispleasure; and how he could help it in those close quarters I do not see. 

While I looked on, papa came with provisions. At one time the foodconsisted of green worms about twice as large as a common knittingneedle. Three or four of them he held crosswise of his beak, and gaveone to each nestling. The next course was a big white grub, which he didnot divide, but gave to one, who had considerable difficulty inswallowing it. 

I said the birds did not notice the family, but they very quicklyrecognized me as a stranger. They stood and glared at me in the cardinalway, and uttered some sharp remonstrance; but business was pressing, andI was unobtrusive, so they concluded to ignore me. 

The advent of the first redbird baby seemed to give much pleasure, forthe head of the family sang a good deal in the intervals of feeding; andboth of the pair appeared very happy over it, often alighting beside thewanderer, evidently to encourage him, for they did not always feed. Theyoungster, after an hour, perhaps, flew about ten feet to a peach-tree, where he struggled violently, and nearly fell before he secured a holdon a twig. Both parents flew to his assistance, but he did not fall, andsoon after he flew to a grape trellis, and, with a little clambering, toa stem of the vine, where he seemed pleased to stay, --perhaps becausethis overlooked the garden whence came all his food. 

I stayed two or three hours with the little family, and then left them;and when I appeared the next morning all were gone from the nest. Iheard the gentle cries of young redbirds all around, but did not try tolook them up, both because I did not want to worry the parents, andbecause I had already made acquaintance with young cardinals in my fouro'clock studies. 

The place this discerning pair of birds had selected in which toestablish themselves was one of the most charming nooks in the vicinity. Kept free from English sparrows (by persistently destroying theirnests), and having but a small and quiet family, it was the delight ofcardinals and catbirds. Without taking pains to look for them, one mightsee the nests of two catbirds, two wood doves, a robin or two, andothers; and there were beside, thickets, the delight of many birds, anda row of spruces so close that a whole flock might have nested there insecurity. In that spot "the quaintly discontinuous lays" of the catbirdwere in perfection; one song especially was the best I ever heard, being louder and more clear than catbirds usually sing. 

As I turned to leave the grounds, the relieved parent, who had notrelished my interest in his little folk, mounted a branch, and, "Like a pomegranate flower In the dark foliage of the cedar-tree, Shone out and sang for me. "

And thus I left him. 

XI. 

LITTLE BOY BLUE. 

 "The crested blue jay flitting swift. "

To know the little boy blue in his domestic life had been my desire foryears. In vain did I search far and wide for a nest, till it began tolook almost as if the bird intentionally avoided me. I went to NewEngland, and blue jays disappeared as if by magic; I turned my steps tothe Rocky Mountains, and the whole tribe betook itself to theinaccessible hills. In despair I abandoned the search, and set up mytent in the middle country, without a thought of the bonny blue bird. One June morning I seated myself by my window, which looked out upon agoodly stretch of lawn dotted with trees of many kinds, and behold thelong-desired object right before my eyes!

The blue jay himself pointed it out to me; unconsciously, however, forhe did not notice me in my distant window. From the ground, where I waslooking at him, he flew directly to a pine-tree about thirty feet high, and there, near the top, sat his mate on her nest. He leaned over hertenderly; she fluttered her wings and opened her mouth, and he droppedinto it the tidbit he had brought. Then she stepped to a branch on oneside, and he proceeded to attend to the wants of the young family, toosmall as yet to appear above the edge. 

The pine-tree, which from this moment became of absorbing interest, wasso far from my window that the birds never thought of me as an observer, and yet so near that with my glass I could see them perfectly. It wasalso exactly before a thick-foliaged maple, that formed a backgroundagainst which I could watch the life of the nest, wherever the sunlightfell, and whatever the condition of the sky; so happily was placed myblue jay household. 

I observed at once that the jay was very gallant and attentive to hisspouse. The first mouthful was for her, even when babies grew clamorous, and she took her share of the work of feeding. Nor did he omit thislittle politeness when they went to the nest together, both presumablywith food for the nestlings. She was a devoted mother, brooding herbantlings for hours every day, till they were so big that it was hard tocrowd them back into the cradle; and he was an equally faithful father, working from four o'clock in the morning till after dusk, a good dealof the time feeding the whole family. I acquired a new respect for_Cyanocitta cristata_. 

I had not watched the blue jays long before I was struck with thepeculiar character of the feathered world about me, the strange absenceof small birds. The neighbors were blackbirds (purple grackles), Carolina doves, golden-winged and red-headed woodpeckers, robins andcardinal grosbeaks, and of course English sparrows, --all large birds, able to hold their own by force of arms, as it were, except theforeigner, who maintained his position by impudence and union, a mobbeing his weapon of offense and defense. Beside him no small bird livedin the vicinity. No vireo hung there her dainty cup, while her matepreached his interminable sermons from the trees about; no phœbeshouted his woes to an unsympathizing world; no sweet-voiced goldfinchpoured out his joyous soul; not a song-sparrow tuned his little laywithin our borders. Unseen of men, but no doubt sharply defined toclearer senses than ours, was a line barring them out. 

Who was responsible for this state of things? Could it be the one pairof jays in the pine, or the colony of blackbirds the other side of thehouse? Should we characterize it as a blue jay neighborhood or ablackbird neighborhood? The place was well policed, certainly; robinsand blue jays united in that work, though their relations with eachother bore the character of an armed neutrality, always ready for a fewhot words and a little bluster, but never really coming to blows. Wenever had the pleasure of seeing a stranger among us. We might hear himapproaching, nearer and nearer, till, just as the eager listener fanciedhe might alight in sight, there would burst upon the air the screech ofa jay or the war-cry of a robin, accompanied by the precipitate flightof the whole clan, and away would go the stranger in a most sensationalmanner, followed by outcries and clamor enough to drive off an army offeathered brigands. This neighborhood, if the accounts of his characterare to be credited, should be the congenial home of thekingbird, --tyrant flycatcher he is named; but as a matter of fact, notonly were the smaller flycatchers conspicuous by their absence, but theking himself was never seen, and the flying tribes of the insect world, so far as dull-eyed mortals could see, grew and flourished. 

Close scrutiny of every movement of wings, however, revealed one thing, namely, that any small bird who appeared within our precincts wasinstantly, without hesitation, and equally without unusual noise orspecial publicity, driven out by the English sparrow; and I becameconvinced that he, and he alone, was responsible for the presence ofnone but large birds, who could defy him. 

One of the prettiest sights about the pine-tree homestead was the waythe jay went up to it. He never imitated the easy style of his mate, whosimply flew to a branch below the three that held her treasure, andhopped up the last step. Not he; not so would his knightly soul mount tothe castle of his sweetheart and his babies. He alighted much lower, often at the foot of the tree, and passed jauntily up the winding waythat led to them, hopping from branch to branch, pausing on each, andcircling the trunk as he went; now showing his trim violet-blue coat, now his demure Quaker-drab vest and black necklace; and so he ascendedhis spiral stair. 

There is nothing demure about the blue jay, let me hasten to say, excepthis vest; there is no pretension about him. He does not go around withthe meek manners of the dove, and then let his angry passions rise, inspite of his reputation, as does that "meek and gentle" fellow-creatureon occasion. The blue jay takes his life with the utmost seriousness, however it may strike a looker-on. While his helpmeet is on the nest, itis, according to the blue jay code, his duty, as well as it is plainlyhis pleasure, to provide her with food, which consequently he does;later, it is his province not only to feed, but to protect the family, which also he accomplishes with much noise and bluster. Before the youngare out comes his hardest task, keeping the secret of the nest, whichobliges him to control his naturally boisterous tendencies; but even inthis he is successful, as I saw in the case of a bird whose mate wassitting in an apple-tree close beside a house. There, he was the soul ofdiscretion, and so subdued in manner that one might be in the vicinityall day and never suspect the presence of either. All the comings andgoings took place in silence, over the top of the tree, and I havewatched the nest an hour at a time without being able to see a sign ofits occupancy, except the one thing a sitting bird cannot hide, thetail. And, by the way, how providential--from the bird student's pointof view--that birds have tails! They can, it is true, be narrowed to thewidth of one feather and laid against a convenient twig, but they cannotbe wholly suppressed, nor drawn down out of sight into the nest with therest of the body. 

When the young blue jays begin to speak for themselves, and theirvigilant protector feels that the precious secret can no longer be kept, then he arouses the neighborhood with the announcement that here is anest he is bound to protect with his life; that he is engaged inperforming his most solemn duty, and will not be disturbed. His air isthat so familiar in bigger folk, of daring the whole world to "knock achip off his shoulder, " and he goes about with an appearance ofimportant business on hand very droll to see. 

The bearing of the mother of the pine-tree brood was somewhat differentfrom that of her mate, and by their manners only could the pair bedistinguished. Whatever may be Nature's reason for dressing the sexesunlike each other in the feathered world, --which I will leave for thewise heads to settle, --it is certainly an immense advantage to thelooker-on in birddom. When a pair are facsimiles of each other, as arethe jays, it requires the closest observation to tell them apart;indeed, unless there is some defect in plumage, which is not uncommon, it is necessary to penetrate their personal characteristics, to becomefamiliar with their idiosyncrasies of habit and manner. In the pine-treefamily, the mother had neither the presence of mind nor the bluster ofthe partner of her joys. When I came too near the nest tree, she greetedme with a plaintive cry, a sort of "craw! craw!" at the same time"jouncing" herself violently, thus protesting against my intrusion;while he saluted me with squawks that made the welkin ring. Neither ofthem paid any attention to me, so long as I remained upon a stationarybench not far from their tree; they were used to seeing people in thatplace, and did not mind them. It was the unexpected that they resented. Having established our habits, birds in general insist that we shallgovern ourselves by them, and not depart from our accustomed orbit. 

On near acquaintance, I found the jay possessed of a vocabulary morecopious than that of any other bird I know, though the flicker does notlack variety of expression. When some aspiring scientist is ready tostudy the language of birds, I advise him to experiment with the bluejay. He is exceedingly voluble, always ready to talk, and not in theleast backward in exhibiting his accomplishments. The low-toned, plaintive sounding conversation of the jays with each other, not onlybeside the nest, but when flying together or apart, or in briefinterviews in the lilac bush, pleased me especially, because it wasexactly the same prattle that a pet blue jay was accustomed to addressto me; and it confirmed what I had always believed from his manner, thatit was his most loving and intimate expression, the tone in which headdresses his best beloved. 

Beside the well-known squawk, which Thoreau aptly calls "the brazentrump of the impatient jay, " the shouts and calls and war-cries of thebird can hardly be numbered, and I have no doubt each has its definitemeaning. More rarely may be heard a clear and musical two-note cry, sounding like "ke-lo! ke-lo!" This seems to be something special in thejay language, for not only is it peculiar and quite unlike every otherutterance, but I never saw the bird when he delivered it, and I was longin tracing it home to him. Aside from the cries of war and victory, jayshave a great variety of notes of distress; they can put more anguish anddespair into their tones than any other living creature of myacquaintance. Some, indeed, are so moving that the sympathetic hearer issure that, at the very least, the mother's offspring are being murderedbefore her eyes; and on rushing out, prepared to risk his life in theirdefense, he finds, perhaps, that a child has strayed near the tree, orsomething equally dreadful has occurred. Jays have no idea of relativevalues; they could not make more ado over a heart-breaking calamity thanthey do over a slight annoyance. Some of their cries, notably that ofthe jay baby, sound like the wail of a human infant. As to one curiousutterance in the jay _répertoire_, I could not quite make up my mindwhether it was a real call to arms, or intended as a joke on theneighborhood. When a bird, without visible provocation, suddenly burstout with this loud two-note call, instantly every feathered individualwas on the alert, --sprang to arms, as it were. Blue jays joined in, robins hurried to the tops of the tallest trees and added their excitednotes, with jerking wings and tail, and at the second or thirdrepetition the whole party precipitated itself as one bird--upon what?Nothing that I could discover. 

XII. 

STORY OF THE NESTLINGS. 

While I was studying the manners and customs of the bird in blue, babieswere growing up in the pine-tree nest. Five days after I began toobserve, I saw little heads above the edge. On the sixth day they began, as mothers say, to "take notice, " stirring about in a lively way, clambering up into sight, and fluttering their draperies over the edge. Now came busy and hungry times in the jay family; the mother added herforces, and both parents worked industriously from morning till night. 

On the seventh day I was up early, as usual, and, also as usual, myfirst act was to admire the view from my window. I fancied it was themost beautiful in the early morning, when the sun, behind the rampart oflocust and other trees, threw the yard into deep shade, painting athousand shadow pictures on the grass; but at still noon, when everyperfect tree stood on its own shadow, openings looked dark andmysterious, and a bird was lost in the depths, then I was sure it wasnever so lovely; again at night, when wrapped in darkness, and allsilent except the subdued whisper of the pine, with its

 "Sound of the Sea, O mournful tree, In thy boughs forever clinging, "

I knew it could not be surpassed. I was up early, as I said, when thedove was cooing to his mate in the distance, and before human noises hadbegun, and then I heard the baby cry from the pine-tree, --a whisperedjay squawk, constantly repeated. 

On this day the first nestling mounted the edge of his high nursery, andfluttered his wings when food approached. Every night after that it grewmore and more difficult to settle the household in bed, for everybodywanted to be on top; and no sooner would one arrange himself to his mindthan some "under one, " not relishing his crushed position, wouldstruggle out, step over his brothers and sisters, and take his place ontop, and then the whole thing would have to be done over. I think thatmamma had often to put a peremptory end to these difficulties by sittingdown on them, for frequently it was a very turbulent-looking nest whenshe calmly placed herself upon it. 

Often, in those days, I wished I could put myself on a level with thatlittle castle in the air, and look into it, filled to the brim withbeauty as I knew it was. But I had not long to wait, for speedily itbecame too full, and ran over into the outside world. On the eighth dayone ambitious youngster stepped upon the branch beside the nest andshook himself out, and on the ninth came the plunge into the wide, wideworld. While I was at breakfast he made his first effort, and on myreturn I saw him on a branch about a foot below the nest, the last stepon papa's winding stair. Here he beat his wings and plumed himselfvigorously, rejoicing, no doubt, in his freedom and in plenty of room. Again and again he nearly lost his balance, in his violent attempts todress his beautiful plumage, and remove the last remnant of nestmussiness. But he did not fall, and at last he began to look about him. One cannot but wonder what he thought when he

 "First opened wondering eyes and found A world of green leaves all around, "

looking down upon us from his high perch, complete to the little blacknecklace, and lacking only length of tail of being as big as hisparents. 

After half an hour of restless putting to rights, the little jay satdown patiently to wait for whatever might come to him. The wind got upand shook him well, but he rocked safely on his airy seat. Then some oneapproached. He leaned over with mouth open, and across the yard I heardhis coaxing voice. But alas! though he was on the very threshold, thefood-bearer omitted that step, and passed him by. Then the little onelooked up wistfully, apparently conscious of being at a disadvantage. Did he regret the nest privileges he had abandoned? Should he retracehis steps and be a nestling? That the thought passed through his headwas indicated by his movements. He raised himself on his legs, turnedhis face to his old home, and started up, even stepped one small twignearer. But perish the thought! he would not go back! He settled himselfagain on his seat. 

All things come in time to him who can wait, and the next provisionstopped at the little wanderer. His father alighted beside him and fedhim two mouthfuls. Thus fortified, his ambition was roused, and hisdesire to see more, to do more. He began to jump about on his perch, facing first this way, then that; he crept to the outer end of thebranch he was on, and was lost to view behind a thick clump of pineneedles. In a few minutes he returned, considered other branches near, and, after some study, did really go to the nearest one. Then, step bystep, very deliberately, he mounted the winding stair of his father, using, however, every little twig that the elder had vaulted over at abound. Finally he reached the branch opposite his birthplace, only thetree-trunk between. The trunk was small, home was invitingly near, hewas tired; the temptation was too great, and in a minute he was cuddleddown with his brothers, having been on a journey of an hour. In thenest, all this time, there had been a hurry and skurry of dressing, asthough the house were to be vacated, and no one wished to be late. Aftera rest and probably a nap, the ambitious young jay took a longer trip:he flew to the next tree, and, I believe, returned no more. 

The next day was spent by all the nestlings in hopping about the threebranches on which their home was built, making beautiful pictures ofthemselves every moment; but whenever the bringer of supplies drew near, each little one hastened to scramble back to the nest, to be ready forhis share. The last day in the old home had now arrived. One by one thebirdlings flew to the maple, and turned their backs on their native treeforever; and that night the "mournful tree" was entirely deserted. 

The exit was not accomplished without its excitement. After tea, as Iwas congratulating myself that they were all safely out in the world, without accident, suddenly there arose a terrible outcry, robin and bluejay voices in chorus. I looked over to the scene of the fray, and saw ayoung jay on the ground, and the parents frantic with anxiety. Naturally, my first impulse was to go to their aid, and I started; but Iwas saluted with a volley of squawks that warned me not to interfere. Iretired meekly, leaving the birds to deal with the difficulty as theybest could, while from afar I watched the little fellow as he scrambledaround in the grass. He tried to fly, but could not rise more than twofeet. Both the elders were with him, but seemed unable to help him, andnight was coming on. I resolved, finally, to "take my life in my hands, "brave those unreasoning parents, and place the infant out of the way ofcats and boys. 

As I reached the doorstep I saw that the youngster had begun to climbthe trunk of a locust-tree. I stood in amazement and saw that baby climbsix feet straight up the trunk. He did it by flying a few inches, clinging to the bark and resting, then flying a few inches more. Iwatched, breathless, till he got nearly to the lowest branch, when alas!his strength or his courage gave out, and he fell back to the ground. But he pulled himself together, and after a few minutes more ofstruggling through the grass he came to the trunk of the maple next hisnative pine. Up this he went in the same way, till he reached a branch, where I saw him sitting with all the dignity of a young jay (old jayshave no dignity). While he was wrestling with fate and his life was inthe balance, the parents had kept near him and perfectly silent, unlesssome one came near, when they filled the air with squawks, and appearedso savage that I honestly believe they would have attacked any one whohad tried to lend a hand. 

But still the little blue-coat had not learned sufficient modesty ofendeavor, for the next morning he found himself again in the grass. Hetried climbing, but unfortunately selected a tree with branches higherthan he could hold out to reach; so he fell back to the ground. Thencame the inexorable demands of breakfast, with which no one who has beenup since four o'clock will decline to comply. On my return, thestraggler was mounted on a post that held a tennis net, three or fourfeet from the ground. One of the old birds was on the rope close by him, and there I left them. Once more I saw him fall, but I concluded thatsince he had learned to climb, and the parents would not accept myassistance any way, he must take care of himself. I suppose he was theyoungest of the brood, who could not help imitating his elders, but wasnot strong enough to do as they did. On the following day he was able tokeep his place, and he came to the ground no more. 

From that day I saw, and, what was more evident, heard the jay babiesconstantly, though they wandered far from the place of their birth. Their voices waxed stronger day by day; from morning to night theycalled vigorously; and very lovely they looked as they sat on thebranches in their brand-new fluffy suits, with their tails a littlespread, and showing the snowy borderings beautifully. Twenty-two daysafter they bade farewell to the old home before my window they werestill crying for food, still following their hard-working parents, and, though flying with great ease, never coming to the ground (that I couldsee), and apparently having not the smallest notion of looking out forthemselves. 

XIII. 

BLUE JAY MANNERS. 

Early in my acquaintance with the jay family, wishing to induce thebirds of the vicinity to show themselves, I procured a quantity ofshelled corn, and scattered a few handfuls under my window every night. This gave me opportunity to note, among other things, the jay's way ofconducting himself on the ground, and his table manners. To eat a kernelof dry corn, he flew with it to a small branch, placed it between hisfeet (the latter of course being close together), and, holding it thus, drew back his head and delivered a blow with that pickaxe beak of histhat would have broken a toe if he had missed by the shadow of an inchthe grain for which it was intended. I was always nervous when I saw himdo it, for I expected an accident, but none ever happened that I knowof. When the babies grew clamorous all over the place, the jay used tofill his beak with the whole kernels. Eight were his limit, and thosekept the mouth open, with one sticking out at the tip. Thus loaded heflew off, but was back in two minutes for another supply. Thered-headed woodpecker, who claimed to own the corn-field, seemed tothink this a little grasping, and protested against such a wholesaleperformance; but the overworked jay simply jumped to one side when hecame at him, and went right on picking up corn. When he had time tospare from his arduous duties, he sometimes indulged his passion forburying things by carrying a grain off on the lawn with an air of mostimportant business, and driving it into the ground, hammering it welldown out of sight. 

The blue jay's manner of getting over the ground was peculiar, andespecially his way of leaving it. He proceeded by high hops, bounding upfrom each like a rubber ball; and when ready to fly he hopped fartherand bounded higher each time, till it seemed as if he were too high toreturn, and so took to his wings. That is exactly the way it looked toan observer; for there is a lightness, an airiness of bearing about thisapparently heavy bird impossible to describe, but familiar to those whohave watched him. 

Some time after the blue jay family had taken to roaming about thegrounds, I had a pleasing little interview with one of them in theraspberry patch. This was a favorite resort of the neighboring birds, where I often betook myself to see who came to the feast. This morningI was sitting quietly under a spruce-tree, when three blue jays cameflying toward me with noise and outcries, evidently in excitement oversomething. The one leading the party had in his beak a white object, like a piece of bread, and was uttering low, complaining cries as heflew; he passed on, and the second followed him; but the third seemedstruck by my appearance, and probably felt it his duty to inquire intomy business, for he alighted on a tree before me, not ten feet fromwhere I sat. He began in the regular way, by greeting me with a squawk;for, like some of his bigger (and wiser?) fellow-creatures, he assumedthat a stranger must be a suspicious personage, and an unusual positionmust mean mischief. I was very comfortable, and I thought I would see ifI could not fool him into thinking me a scarecrow, companion to thoseadorning the "patch" at that moment. I sat motionless, not using myglass, but looking him squarely in the eyes. This seemed to impress him;he ceased squawking, and hopped a twig nearer, stopped, turned onecalmly observant eye on me, then quickly changed to the other, as if tosee if the first had not deceived him. Still I did not move, and he wasplainly puzzled to make me out. He came nearer and nearer, and I movedonly my eyes to keep them on his. All this time he did not utter asound, but studied me as closely, and to all appearances as carefully, as ever I had studied him. Obviously he was in doubt what manner ofcreature it was, so like the human race, yet so unaccountably quiet. Hetried to be unconcerned, while still not releasing me from strictsurveillance; he dressed his feathers a little, uttering a soft whisperto himself, as if he said, "Well, I never!" then looked me over againmore carefully than before. This pantomime went on for half an hour ormore; and no one who had looked for that length of time into the eyes ofa blue jay could doubt his intelligence, or that he had his thoughts andhis well-defined opinions, that he had studied his observer very much asshe had studied him, and that she had not fooled him in the least. 

The little boy blue is one of the birds suffering under a bad name whomI have wished to know better, to see if perchance something might bedone to clear up his reputation a bit. I am not able to say that henever steals the eggs of other birds, though during nearly a month ofhard work, when, if ever, a few eggs would have been a welcome additionto his resources, and sparrows were sitting in scores on the place, Idid not see or hear anything of the sort. I have heard of his destroyingthe nest, and presumably eating the eggs or young of the Englishsparrow, but the hundred or two who raised their broods and squawkedfrom morning to night in the immediate vicinity of the pine-treehousehold never intimated that they were disturbed, and never showedhostility to their neighbors in blue. Moreover, there is undoubtedlysomething to be said on the jay's side. Even if he does indulge in theselittle eccentricities, what is he but a "collector"? And though he doesnot claim to be working "in the interest of science, " which biggercollectors invariably do, he is working in the interest of life, andlife is more than science. Even a blue jay's life is to him as preciousas ours to us, and who shall say that it is not as useful as many ofours in the great plan?

The only indications of hostilities that I observed in four weeks' closestudy, at the most aggressive time of bird life, nesting-time, I shallrelate exactly as I saw them, and the record will be found a very modestone. In this case, certainly, the jay was no more offensive than themeekest bird that has a nest to defend, and far less belligerent thanrobins and many others. On one occasion a strange blue jay flew up tothe nest in the pine. I could not discover that he had any evilintention, except just to see what was going on, but one of the pairflew at him with loud cries, which I heard for some time after the twohad disappeared in the distance, and when our bird returned, he perchedon an evergreen, bowing and "jouncing" violently, his manner plainlydefying the enemy to "try it again. " At another time I observed a savagefight, or what looked like it, between two jays. I happened not to seethe beginning, for I was particularly struck that morning with thebehavior of a bouquet of nasturtiums which stood in a vase on my table. I never was fond of these flowers, and I noticed then for the first timehow very self-willed and obstinate they were. No matter how nicely theywere arranged, it would not be an hour before the whole bunch was indisorder, every blossom turning the way it preferred, and no two lookingin the same direction. I thought, when I first observed this, that Imust be mistaken, and I took them out and rearranged them as Iconsidered best; but the result was always the same, and I began to feelthat they knew altogether too much for their station in the vegetableworld. I was trying to see if I could discover any method in theirmovements, when I was startled by a flashing vision of blue down underthe locusts, and, on looking closely, saw two jays flying up likequarrelsome cocks, --only not together, but alternately, so that one wasin the air all the time. They flew three feet high, at least, all theirfeathers on end, and looking more like shapeless masses of blue feathersthan like birds. They did not pause or rest till one seemed to get theother down. I could not see from my window well enough to be positive, but both were in the grass together, and only one in sight, who stoodperfectly quiet. He appeared to be holding the other down, foroccasionally there would be a stir below, and renewed vigilance on thepart of the one I could see. Several minutes passed. I became veryuneasy. Was he killing him? I could stand it no longer, so I ran down. But my coming was a diversion, and both flew. When I reached the place, one had disappeared, and the other was hopping around the tree in greatexcitement, holding in his beak a fluffy white feather about the size ofa jay's breast feather. I did not see the act, and I cannot absolutelydeclare it, but I have no doubt that he pulled that feather from thebreast of his foe as he held him down; how many more with it I could nottell, for I did not think of looking until it was too late. 

Again one day, somewhat later, when blue jay and catbird babies wererather numerous, I saw a blue jay dive into a lilac bush much frequentedby catbirds, young and old together. Instantly there arose a great cryof distress, as though some one were hurt, and a rustling of leaves, proclaiming that a chase, if not a fight, was in progress. I hurrieddownstairs, and as I appeared the jay flew, with two catbirds after him, still crying in a way I had never heard before. I expected nothing lessthan to find a young catbird injured, but I found nothing. Whether theblue jay really had touched one, or it was a mere false alarm on thepart of the very excitable catbirds, I could not tell. This is the onlything I have seen in the jay that might have been an interference withanother bird's rights; and the catbirds made such a row when I came neartheir babies that I strongly suspect the only guilt of the jay wasalighting in the lilac they had made their headquarters. 

The little boy blue in the apple-tree, already spoken of, did not gethis family off with so little adventure as his pine-tree neighbor. Theyoungling of this nest came to the ground and stayed there. The peopleof the house returned him to the tree several times, but every time hefell again. Three or four days he wandered about the neighborhood, theparents rousing the country with their uproar, and terrorizing thehousehold cat to such a point of meekness that no sooner did a jay beginto squawk than he ran to the door and begged to come in. At last, out ofmercy, the family took the little fellow into the house, when they sawthat he was not quite right in some way. One side seemed to be nearlyuseless; one foot did not hold on; one wing was weak; and his breathingseemed to be one-sided. The family, seeing that he could not take careof himself, decided to adopt him. He took kindly to human care and humanfood, and before the end of a week had made himself very much at home. He knew his food provider, and the moment she entered the room he roseon his weak little legs, fluttered his wings violently, and presented agaping mouth with the jay baby cry issuing therefrom. Nothing was evermore droll than this sight. He was an intelligent youngster, knew whathe wanted, and when he had had enough. He would eat bread up to acertain point, but after that he demanded cake or a berry, and hisfavorite food was an egg. He was exceedingly curious about all hissurroundings, examined everything with great care, and delighted to lookout of the window. He selected his own sleeping-place, --the upper one ofa set of bookshelves, --and refused to change; and he watched themovements of a wounded woodcock as he ran around the floor with as muchinterest as did the people. Under human care he grew rapidly stronger, learned to fly more readily and to use his weak side; and every day hewas allowed to fly about in the trees for hours. Once or twice, whenleft out, he returned to the house for food and care; but at last came aday when he returned no more. No doubt he was taken in charge again byhis parents, who, it was probable, had not left the neighborhood. 

After July came in, and baby blue jays could hardly be distinguishedfrom their parents, my studies took me away from the place nearly allday, and I lost sight of the family whose acquaintance had made my Juneso delightful. 

XIV. 

THE GREAT CAROLINIAN. 

All through June of that summer I studied the birds in the spaciousinclosure around my "Inn of Rest. " But as that month drew near its end, "The happy birds that change their sky To build and brood, that live their lives From land to land, "

almost disappeared. Blue jay babies wandered far off, where I could hearthem it is true, but where--owing to the despair into which myappearance threw the whole jay family--I rarely saw them; orchard andBaltimore orioles had learned to fly, and carried their ceaseless criesfar beyond my hearing; catbirds and cardinals, doves and golden-wings, all had raised their broods and betaken themselves wherever their fancyor food drew them, certainly without the bounds of my daily walks. Itwas evident that I must seek fresh fields, or remove my quarters to amore northerly region, where the sun is less ardent and the birds lessin haste with their nesting. 

Accordingly I sought a companion who should also be a guide, and turnedmy steps to the only promising place in the vicinity, a deep ravine, through which ran a little stream that was called a river, and dignifiedwith a river's name, yet rippled and babbled, and conducted itselfprecisely like a brook. 

The Glen, as it was called, was a unique possession for a commonwork-a-day village in the midst of a good farming country. Long agowould its stately trees have been destroyed, its streamlet set toturning wheels, and Nature forced to express herself on those manyacres, in corn and potatoes, instead of her own graceful and variedselection of greenery; or, mayhap, its underbrush cut out, its slopessodded, its springs buried in pipes and put to use, and the whole"improved" into dull insipidity, --all this, but for the will of one manwho held the title to the grounds, and rated it so highly, that, thoughwilling to sell, no one could come up to his terms. Happy delusion! thatblessed the whole neighborhood with an enchanting bit of natureuntouched by art. Long may he live to keep the deeds in his possession, and the grounds in their own wild beauty. 

The place was surrounded by bristling barbed fences, and trespasserswere pointedly warned off, so when one had paid for the privilege, andentered the grounds, he was supposed to be safe from intrusion, exceptof others who had also bought the right. The part easily accessible tohotel and railroad station was the scene of constant picnics, for whichthe State is famous, but that portion which lay near my place of studywas usually left to the lonely kingfisher--and the cows. There the shywood dwellers set up their households, and many familiar upland birdscame with their fledglings; that was the land of promise forbird-lovers, and there one of them decided to study. 

We began with the most virtuous resolves. We would come at five o'clockin the morning; we would catch the birds at their breakfast. We did; itwas a lovely morning after a heavy rain, on which we set out to explorethe ravine for birds. The storm in passing had taken the breeze with it, and not a twig had stirred since. Every leaf and grass blade was loadedwith rain-drops. Walking in the grass was like wading in a stream; totouch a bush was to evoke a shower. But though our shoes were wetthrough, and our garments well sprinkled, before we reached the barbedfence, over or under or through or around which we must pass to ourgoal, we would not be discouraged; we went on. 

As to the fence, let me, in passing, give my fellow drapery-bearers ahint. Carry a light shawl, or even a yard of muslin, to lay across thewire you can step over (thus covering the mischievous barbs), while agood friend holds up with strong hand the next wire, and you slipthrough. Thus you may pass this cruel device of man without accident. 

Having circumvented the fence, the next task was to descend the steepsides of the ravine. The difficulty was, not to get down, for that couldbe done almost anywhere, but to go right side up; to land on the feetand not on the head was the test of sure-footedness and climbingability. We conquered that obstacle, cautiously creeping down rockysteps, and over slippery soil, steadying ourselves by bushes, claspingsmall tree-trunks, scrambling over big ones that lay prone upon theground, and thus we safely reached the level of the stream. Then wepassed along more easily, stooping under low trees, crossing the beds oftiny brooks, encircling clumps of shrubbery (and catching the night'scobwebs on our faces), till we reached a fallen tree-trunk that seemedmade for resting. There we seated ourselves, to breathe, and to see wholived in the place. 

One of the residents proclaimed himself at once, "To left and right The cuckoo told his name to all the hills, "--

and in a moment we saw him, busy with his breakfast. His manner ofhunting was interesting; he stood perfectly still on a branch, his beakpointed upward, but his head so turned that one eye looked downward. When something attracted him, he almost fell off his perch, seized themorsel as he passed, alighted on a lower branch, and at once beganlooking around again. There was no frivolity, no flitting about like alittle bird; his conduct was grave and dignified, and he was absolutelysilent, except when at rare intervals he mounted a branch and utteredhis call, or song, if one might so call it. He managed his long tailwith grace and expression, holding it a little spread as he moved about, thus showing the white tips and "corners. "

While we were absorbed in cuckoo affairs the sun peeped over the trees, and the place was transfigured. Everything, as I said, was charged withwater, and looking against the sun, some drops hanging from the tip of aleaf glowed red as rubies, others shone out blue as sapphires, whilehere and there one scintillated with many colors like a diamond, nowflashing red, and now yellow or blue. 

 "The humblest weed Wore its own coronal, and gayly bold Waved jeweled sceptre. "

In that spot we sat an hour, and saw many birds, with whom it wasevidently a favorite hunting-ground. But no one seemed to live there;every one appeared to be passing through; and realizing as we did, thatit was late in the season, our search for nests in use was ratherhalf-hearted anyway. As our breakfast-time drew near we decided to gohome, having found nothing we cared to study. Just as we were takingleave of the spot I heard, nearly at my back, a gentle scolding cry, andglancing around, my eyes fell upon two small birds running down thetrunk of a walnut sapling. A few inches above the ground one of the pairdisappeared, and the other, still scolding, flew away. I hastened to thespot--and there I found my great Carolinian. 

The nest was made in a natural cavity in the side of a stump six oreight inches in diameter and a foot high. It seemed to be of moss, completely roofed over, and stooping nearer its level I saw the bird, looking flattened as if she had been crushed, but returning my gaze, bravely resolved to live or die with her brood. I noted her color, andthe peculiar irregular line over her eye, and then I left her, though Idid not know who she was. Nothing would have been easier than to put myhand over her door and catch her, but nothing would have induced me todo so--if I never knew her name. Time enough for formal introductionslater in our acquaintance, I thought, and if it happened that we nevermet again, what did I care how she was named in the books?

I did not at first even suspect her identity, for who would expect tofind the great Carolina wren a personage of less than six inches! eventhough he were somewhat familiar with the vagaries of name-givers, whocall one bird after the cat, whom he in no way resembles, and anotherafter the bull, to whom the likeness is, if possible, still less. Whatwas certain was that the nest belonged to wrens, and was admirablyplaced for study; and what I instantly resolved was to improve myacquaintance with the owners thereof. 

The little opening in the woods, which became the Wren's Court, whentheir rank was discovered, was a most attractive place, shaded enough tobe pleasant, while yet leaving a goodly stretch of blue sky in sight, bounded on one side by immense forest trees--walnut, butternut, oak, andothers--which looked as if they had stood there for generations; on theother side, the babbling stream, up and down which the kingfisher flewand clattered all day. One way out led to the thicket where awood-thrush was sitting in a low tree, and the other, by the PathDifficult, up to the world above. The seat, across the court from thenest, had plainly been arranged by some kind fate on purpose for us. Itwas the trunk of a tree, which in falling failed to quite reach theground, and so had bleached and dried, and it was shaded and screenedfrom observation by vigorous saplings which had sprung up about it. Thewhole was indeed an ideal nook, well worthy to be named after itsdistinguished residents. 

Thoreau was right in his assertion that one may see all the birds of aneighborhood by simply waiting patiently in one place, and into thatcharming spot came "sooner or later" every bird I had seen in mywanderings up and down the ravine. There sang the scarlet tanager everymorning through July, gleaming among the leaves of the tallest trees, his olive-clad spouse nowhere to be seen, presumably occupied withdomestic affairs. There the Acadian flycatcher pursued his calling, fluttering his wings and uttering a sweet little murmur when healighted. Into that retired corner came the cries of flicker and bluejay from the high ground beyond. On the edge sang the indigo-bird andthe wood-pewee, and cardinal and wood-thrush song formed the chorus toall the varied notes that we heard. 

Upon our entrance the next morning, my first glance at the nest was oneof dismay--the material seemed to be pulled out a little. Had it beenrobbed! had some vagabond squirrel thrust lawless paws into the littlehome! I looked closely; no, there sat, or rather there lay the littlemother. But she did not relish this second call. She flew, flutteringand trailing on the ground, as if hurt, hoping, of course, to attract usaway from her nest. Seeing that of no avail, however, which she quicklydid, she retreated to a low branch, threw back her head, and uttered asoft "chur-r-r, " again and again repeated, doubtless to her mate. Butthat personage did not make his appearance, and we examined the nest. There were five eggs, white, very thickly and evenly specked with finedots of dark color. An end of one that stuck up was plain white, perhapsthe others were the same; we did not inquire too closely, for what didwe care for eggs, except as the cradles of the future birds?

Very soon we retired to our seat across the court and became quiet, towait for what might come. Suddenly, with almost startling effect, "A bird broke forth and sung And trilled and quavered and shook his throat. "

It was a new voice to us, loud and clear, and the song, consisting ofthree clauses, sounded like "Whit-e-ar! Whit-e-ar! Whit-e-ar!" then apause, and the same repeated, and so on indefinitely. It came nearer andstill nearer, and in a moment we saw the bird, a tiny creature, red-brown on the back, light below--the image of the little sitter inthe stump, as we remarked with delight; we hoped he was her mate. He didnot seem inclined to go to the nest, but stayed on a twig of a deadbranch which hung from a large tree near by. 

While the stranger was pouring out his rhapsody, head thrown back, tailhanging straight down, and wings slightly drooped, I noticed a movementby the nest, and fixed my eyes upon that. The little dame had stolen outof her place, and now began the ascent of the sapling which started outone side of her small stump. Up the trunk she went with perfect ease, running a few steps, and then pausing a moment before she took the nexthalf-dozen. She did not go bobbing up like a woodpecker, nor did shesteady herself with her tail, like that frequenter of tree-trunks; shesimply ran up that almost perpendicular stick as a fly runs up the wall. Meanwhile her mate, if that he were, kept up his ringing song, till shereached the top of the sapling, perhaps seven or eight feet high, andflew over near him. In an instant the song ceased, and the next momenttwo small birds flew over our heads, and we heard chatting andchurring, and then silence. 

Without this hint from the wren we should rarely have seen her leave thenest; we should naturally have watched for wings, and none might come orgo, while she was using her feet instead. She returned in the same way;flying to the top, or part way up her sapling, she ran down to her nestas glibly as she had run up. The walnut-trunk was the ladder which ledto the outside world. This pretty little scene was many times repeated, in the days that we spent before the castle of our Carolinians; the maleannouncing himself afar with songs, and approaching gradually, while hismate listened to the notes that had wooed her, and now again coaxed heraway from her sitting, for a short outing with him. Sometimes, thoughrarely, she came out without this inducement, but during her sittingdays she usually went only upon his invitation. 

Before many days we had fully identified the pair. The song had puzzledme at first, for though extraordinary in volume for a bird of his size, and possessing that indefinable wren quality, that abandon andunexpectedness, as if it were that instant inspired, it had yet fewnotes, and I missed the exquisite tremolo that makes the song of thewinter-wren so bewitching. But I "studied him up, " and learned that hisfinest and most characteristic song is uttered in the spring only. Afternesting has begun, he gives merely these musical calls, which, thoughdelightful, do not compare--say the books--with his ante-nuptialperformance. I was too late for that, but I was glad and thankful forthese. 

Moreover, the wren varied his songs as the days went on. There were fromtwo to five notes in a clause, never more, and commonly but three. Thisclause he repeated again and again during the whole of one visit; butthe next time he came he had a new one, which likewise he kept to whilehe stayed. Again, when, some days later, he took part in feeding, hefrequently changed the song as he left the nest. Struck by the varietyhe gave to his few notes, after some days I began to take them down insyllables as they expressed themselves to my ear, for they were sharpand distinct. Of course, these syllables resemble his sound about as adried flower resembles the living blossom, but they serve the samepurpose, to reproduce them in memory. In that way I recorded in threedays eighteen different arrangements of his notes. Doubtless there weremany more; indeed, he seemed to delight in inventing new combinations, and his taste evidently agreed with mine, for when he succeeded inevolving a particularly charming one, he did not easily change it. Onethat specially pleased me I put down as "Shame-ber-ee!" and this was hisfavorite, too, for after the day he began it, he sang it oftener thanany other. It had a peculiarly joyous ring, the second note being athird below the first, and the third fully an octave higher than thesecond. I believe he had just then struck upon it, his enjoyment of itwas so plain to see. 

The Wren's Court was a distracting spot to study one pair of smallbirds. So many others came about, and always, it seemed, in some crisisin wren affairs, when I dared not take my eyes from my glass, lest Ilose the sequence of events. There appeared sometimes to be a thousandwhispering, squealing, and smacking titmice in the trees over my head, and a whole regiment of great-crested flycatchers and others on oneside. I was glad I was familiar with all the flicker noises, or I shouldhave been driven wild at these moments, so many, so various, and sopeculiar were their utterances; likewise thankful that I knew the rowmade by the jay on the bank above was not a sign of dire distress, butsimply the tragic manner of the family. 

Again, when the wind blew, it was impossible to see the little folkthat chattered and whispered and "dee-dee'd" overhead, and though wewere absolutely certain a party of tufted tits and chickadees and blackand white creepers, who always seemed to travel in company, werefrolicking about, we could not distinguish them from the dancing andfluttering leaves. 

When the day was favorable, and the wren had gone his way, foraging insilence over the low ground at our back, and an old stump that stoodthere, and the sitter had settled herself in her nest for another halfhour, we could look about at whoever happened to be there. Thus I madefurther acquaintance with the great-crested flycatcher. Hitherto I hadknown these birds only as they travel through a neighborhood not theirown, appearing on the tops of trees, and crying out in martial tones forthe inhabitants to bring on their fighters, a challenge to all whom itmay concern. It was a revelation, then, to see them quietly at home likeother birds, setting up claims to a tree, driving strangers away fromit, and spending their time about its foot, seeking food near theground, and indulging in frolics or fights, whichever they might be, with squealing cries and a rushing flight around their tree. In thelatter part of our study, the great-crest babies were out, noisy littlefellows, who insisted on being fed as peremptorily as their eldersdemand their rights and privileges. 

To make the place still more maddening for study, the birds seemed tosweep through the woods in waves. For a long time not a peep would beheard, not a feather would stir; then all at once

 "The air would throb with wings, "

and birds would pour in from all sides, half a dozen at a time, makingus want to look six ways at once, and rendering it impossible to confineourselves to one. Then, after half an hour of this superabundance, oneby one would slip out, and by the time we began to realize it, we werealone again. 

We had watched the wren for nine days when there came an interruption. It happened thus: A little farther up the glen we had another study, awood-thrush nest in a low tree, and every day, either coming or going, we were accustomed to spend an hour watching that. Our place ofobservation was a hidden nook in a pile of rocks, where we were entirelyconcealed by thick trees, through which, by a judicious thinning out oftwigs and leaves, we had made peepholes, for the thrush mamma would nottolerate us in her sight. To reach our seats and not alarm thesuspicious little dame, we always entered from the back, slowly andcautiously climbed the rocks by a rude path which already existed, andslipped in under cover of our leafy screen. 

On the morning of the tenth day we entered the ravine from the upperend, and made our first call upon the thrush. We had been seated insilence for ten or fifteen minutes, and I was beginning to get uneasybecause no bird came to the nest, when a diversion occurred that drovethrush affairs out of our minds. We heard footsteps! It must beremembered that we were alone in this solitary place, far from a house, and naturally we listened eagerly. The steps drew nearer, and then weheard loud breathing. We exchanged glances of relief--it was a cow! Butwhile we were congratulating ourselves began a crashing of branches, afiercer breathing, a rush, and a low bellow!

This was no meek cow! we turned pale, --at any rate we felt pale, --but wetried to encourage each other by suggesting in hurried whispers that hesurely would not see us. Alas! the next instant he broke through thebushes, and to our horror started at once up our path to the rocks; in amoment he would be upon us! We rose hastily, prepared to sell our livesdearly, when, as suddenly as he had come, he turned and rushed back. Whether the sight of us was too much for his philosophy, or whether hehad gone for reinforcements, we did not inquire. We instantly lost ourinterest in birds and birds' nests; we gathered up our belongings andfled, not stopping to breathe till we had put the barbiest of barbedwire fences between us and the foe. 

Once outside, however, we paused to consider: To give up our study wasnot to be thought of; to go every day in fear and dread was equallyintolerable. I wrote to the authorities of whom I had purchased theright to enter the place. They promptly denied the existence of any suchanimal on the premises. I replied to the effect that "seeing isbelieving, " but they reaffirmed their former statement, assuring me thatthere were none but harmless cows in the glen. I did not want to wastetime in an unprofitable correspondence, and I did want to see the wrens, and at last a bright thought came, --I would hire an escort, a countryboy used to cattle, and warranted not afraid of them. I inquired intothe question of day's wages, I looked about among the college studentswho were working their way to an education, and I found an idealprotector, --an intelligent and very agreeable young man, brought up on afarm, and just graduated, who was studying up mathematics preparatory toschool-teaching in the fall. The bargain was soon made, and the nextmorning we started again for the glen, our guardian armed with hisgeometry and a big club. Three days, however, had been occupied inperfecting this arrangement, and I approached the spot with anxiety;indeed, I am always concerned till I see the whole family I am watching, after only a night's interval, and know they have survived the manyperils which constantly threaten bird-life, both night and day. 

XV. 

THE WRENLINGS APPEAR. 

The moment we entered the court I saw there was news. My eyes beingattracted by a little commotion on a dogwood-tree, I saw a saucy tuftedtitmouse chasing with cries one of the wrens who had food in its beak. With most birds this proclaims the arrival of the young family asplainly as if a banner had been hung on the castle walls. Whether thetit was after the food, or trying to drive the wren off his own ground, we could not tell, nor did we much care; the important fact was thatbabies were out in the walnut-tree cottage. The food bearer went to thenest, and in a moment came up the ladder, so joyous and full of songthat he could not wait to get off his own tree, but burst into atriumphant ringing "Whit-e-ar!" that must have told his news to all theworld--who had ears to hear. 

The mother did not at once give up her brooding, nor did I wonder when Ipeeped into the nest while she was off with her spouse, and saw whatappeared to be five big mouths with a small bag of skin attached toeach. Nothing else could be seen. She sat an hour at a time, and thenher mate would come and call her off for a rest and a change, while heskipped down the ladder and fed the bairns. His way in this matter, asin everything else, was characteristic. He never went to the nest tillhe had called her off by his song. It was not till several days later, when she had given up brooding, that I ever saw the pair meet at thenest, and then it seemed to be accidental, and one of them always leftimmediately. 

During the first few days the young parents came and went as of old, byway of the ladder, and I learned to know them apart by their way ofmounting that airy flight of steps. He was more pert in manner, held hishead and tail more jauntily, though he rarely pointed his tail to thesky, as do some of the wren family. He went lightly up in a dancingstyle which she entirely lacked, sometimes jumping to a small shoot thatgrew up quite near the walnut, and running up that as easily as he didthe tree. Her ascent was of a business character; she was on duty, headand tail level with her body, no airs whatever. He was so full ofhappiness in these early days that frequently he could not take time togo to the top, but, having reached a height of two or three feet, heflew, and at once burst into rapturous song, even sang while flyingover to the next tree. From this time they almost abandoned the ladderthey had been so fond of, and flew directly to the nest from the ground, where they got all their food. This change was not because they werehard worked; I never saw birds who took family cares more easily. At theexpiration of three days the mother brooded no more, and indeed it wouldhave troubled her to find a place for herself, the nest was so full. 

Every morning on entering the court I called at the nest, and alwaysfound five yellow beaks turned to the front. On the third day the headswere covered with slate-colored down; on the fourth, wing-feathers beganto show among the heads, but the body was still perfectly bare; on thefifth, the eyes opened on the green world about them, --they were thencertainly five days old, and may have been seven; owing to ourunfortunate absence at the critical time I cannot be sure. On theseventh day the red-brown of the back began to show, and the white ofthe breast made itself visible, while the heads began to look featheryinstead of fuzzy. Even then, however, they took no notice when I put myfinger on them. 

Long before this time the manner of the parents had changed. In thefirst place, they were more busy; foraging industriously on the ground, coming within ten or fifteen feet of us, without appearing to see us atall. In fact they had, after the first day, paid no attention to us, forwe never had disturbed them, never went to the nest till sure that bothwere away, and kept still and quiet in our somewhat distant seat. 

About this time they began to show more anxiety in their manner. Thefirst exhibition was on the fourth day since we knew the young werehatched (and let me say that I _believe_ they were just out of the shellthe morning that we found the father feeding). On this fourth day thesinger perched near the nest-tree, three or four feet from the ground, and began a very loud wren "dear-r-r-r! dear-r-r-r! dear-r-r-r!"constantly repeated. He jerked himself about with great apparentexcitement, looking always on the ground as if he saw an enemy there. Wethought it might be a cat we had seen prowling about, but on examinationno cat was there. Gradually his tone grew lower and lower, and he calmeddown so far as a wren can calm, though he did not cease his cries. I didnot know he could be still so long, but I learned more about wrenpossibilities in that line somewhat later. 

During this performance his mate came with food in her beak, andevidently saw nothing alarming, for she went to the nest with it. Stillhe stood gazing on the ground. Sometimes he flew down and returned atonce, then began moving off, a little at a time, still crying, exactlyas though he were following some one who went slowly. The call, whenlow, was very sweet and tender; very mournful too, and we got muchwrought up over it, wishing--as bird students so often do--that we coulddo something to help. He was roused at last by the intrusion of a birdinto his domain, and his discomfiture of this foe seemed to dispel hisunhappy state of mind, for he at once broke out in joyous song, to ourgreat relief. That was not the last exhibition of the wren'sidiosyncrasy; he repeated it day after day, and finally he went so faras to interpolate low "dear-r-r's" into his sweetest songs. Perhaps thatwas his conception of his duty as protector to the family; if so, he wascertainly faithful in doing it. It was ludicrously like the attitude ofsome people under similar circumstances. 

While the young father was manifesting his anxiety in this way, themother showed hers in another; she took to watching, hardly leaving theplace at all. When she had her babies well fed for the moment, she wentup the trunk a little, in a loitering way that I had never seen herindulge in before, --and a loitering wren is a curiosity. It was plainthat she simply wished to pass away the time. She stepped from thetrunk upon a twig on one side, stayed a little while, then passed to oneon the other side, lingered a few moments, and so she went on. When shearrived at the height of two feet she perched on a small dead twig, andremained a long time--certainly twenty minutes--absolutely motionless. It was hard to see her, and if I had not watched her progress from thefirst, I should not have suspected her presence. A leaf would hide her, even the crossing of two twigs was ample screen, and when she was stillit was hopeless to look for her. The only way we were able to keep trackof either of the pair was by their incessant motions. 

The Great Carolinian had a peculiar custom which showed that his comingwith song was a ceremony he would not dispense with. He would oftenstart off singing, gradually withdraw till fifty or seventy-five feetaway, singing at every pause, and then, if one watched him closely, hemight see him stop, drop to the ground, and hunt about in silence. Whenhe was ready to come again, he would fly quietly a little way off, andthen begin his singing and approaching, as if he had been a mile away. He never sang when on the ground after food, but so soon as he finishedeating, he flew to a perch at least two feet high, generally between sixand ten, and sometimes as high as twenty feet, and sang. 

After a day or two of the wren's singular uneasiness, we discovered atleast one object of his concern. It was a chipmunk, whom we had oftennoticed perched on the highest point of the little ledge of rocks nearthe nest. He seemed to be attending strictly to his own affairs, butafter a good deal of "dear-r-r"-ing, the wren flew furiously at him, almost, if not quite, hitting him, and doing it again and again. Thelittle beast did not relish this treatment and ran off, the birdfollowing and repeating the assault. This was undoubtedly the foe thathe had been troubled about all the time. 

On the tenth or eleventh day of their lives (as I believe) I examinedthe babies in the nest a little more closely than before. I even touchedthem with my finger on head and beak. They looked sleepily at me, butdid not resent it. If the mother were somewhat bigger, I should suspecther of giving them "soothing syrup, " for they had exactly the appearanceof being drugged. They were not overfed; I never saw youngsters so muchlet alone. The parents had nothing like the work of the robin, oriole, or blue jay. They came two or three times, and then left for half anhour or more, yet the younglings were never impatient for food. 

The morning that the young wrens had reached the age of twelve days(that we knew of) was the 22d of July, and the weather was intenselywarm. On the 21st we had watched all day to see them go, sure that theywere perfectly well able. Obviously it is the policy of this family toprepare for a life of extraordinary activity by an infancy of unusualstillness. Never were youngsters so perfectly indifferent to all theworld. In storm or sunshine, in daylight or darkness, they lay theremotionless, caring only for food, and even that showed itself only bythe fact that all mouths were toward the front. The under one of thepile seemed entirely contented to be at the bottom, and the top ones notto exult in their position; in fact, so far as any show of interest inlife was concerned, they might have been a nestful of wooden babies. 

On this morning, as we dragged ourselves wearily over the hot road tothe ravine, we resolved that no handful of wrenlings should force usover that road again. Go off this day they should, if--as my comraderemarked--"we had to raise them by hand. " My first call was at the nest, indifferent whether parents were there or not, for I had becomedesperate. There they lay, lazily blinking at me, and filling the nestoverfull. The singer came rushing down a branch, bristled up, blustering, and calling "Dear-r-r-r!" at me, and I hoped he would beinduced to hurry up his very leisurely brood. 

We took our usual seats and waited. Both parents remained near thehomestead, and little singing was indulged in; this morning there wasserious business on hand, as any one could see. We were desirous ofseeing the first sign of movement, so we resolved to cut away the lastfew leaves that hid the entrance to the nest. We had not done it before, partly not to annoy the birds, and partly not to have them too easilydiscovered by prowlers. 

Miss R---- went to the stump, and cut away half a dozen leaves and twigsdirectly before their door. The young ones looked at her, but did notmove. Then, as I had asked her to do, she pointed a parasol directly atthe spot, so that I, in my distant seat, might locate the nest exactly. This seemed to be the last straw that the birdlings could endure; two ofthem flew off. One went five or six feet away, the other to the groundclose by. Then she came away, and we waited again. In a moment two moreventured out and alighted on twigs near the nest. Then the mother camehome, and acted as surprised as though she had never expected to havethem depart. She went from a twig beside the tree to the nest, and back, about a dozen times, as if she really could not believe her eyes. 

Anxious to see everything that went on, we moved our seats nearer, butthis so disconcerted the pair that we did not stay long. It was longenough to hear the wren baby-cry, a low insect-like noise, and to seesomething that surprised and no less disgusted me, namely, every one ofthose babies hurry back to the tree, climb the trunk, and scramble backinto the nest!--the whole exit to be begun again! It could not be theirdislike of the "cold, cold world, " for a cold world would be a luxurythat morning. 

Of any one who would go back into that crowded nest, with thethermometer on the rampage as it was then, I had my opinion, and I beganto think I didn't care much about wrens anyway; we stayed, however, as amatter of habit, and I suppose they all had a nap after their tremendousexertion. But they manifestly got an idea into their heads at last, ataste of life. After a proper amount of consideration, one of thenestlings took courage to move again, and went so far as a twig thatgrew beside the door, looked around on the world from that post for awhile, then hopped to another, and so on till he encircled the homestump. But when he came again in sight of that delectable nest, he couldnot resist it, and again he added himself to the pile of birds within. This youth was apparently as well feathered as his parents, and, exceptin length of tail, looked exactly like them; many a bird baby startsbravely out in life not half so well prepared for it as this littlewren. 

After nearly three hours of waiting, we made up our minds that theseyoung folk must be out some time during the day, unless they had decidedto take up permanent quarters in that hole in the stump, and what wasmore to the point, that the weather was too warm to await their verydeliberate movements. So we left them, to get off the best way theycould without us, or to stay there all their lives, if they so desired. 

The nest, which at first was exceedingly picturesque--and I had resolvedto bring it away, with the stump that held it--was now so demolishedthat I no longer coveted it. The last and sweetest song of the wren, "Shame-ber-ee!" rang out joyously as we turned our faces to the north, and bade a long farewell to the Great Carolinians. 

XVI. 

THE APPLE-TREE NEST. 

 All day long in the elm, on their swaying perches swinging, New-fledged orioles utter their restless, querulous notes. 

 HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 

The little folk let out the secret, as little folk often do, and afterthey had called attention to it, I was surprised that I had not myselfseen the pretty hammock swinging high up in the apple boughs. 

It was, however, in a part of the grounds I did not often visit, partlybecause the trees close by, which formed a belt across the back of theplace, grew so near together that not a breath of air could penetrate, and it was intolerable in the hot June days, and partly because myappearance there always created a panic. So seldom did a human beingvisit that neglected spot, that the birds did not look for guests, and ageneral stampede followed the approach of one. 

On the eventful day of my happy discovery I was returning from my dailycall upon a blue jay who had set up her home in an apple-tree in aneighbor's yard. The moment I entered the grounds I noticed a greatoutcry. It was loud; it was incessant; and it was of many voices. Following the sound, I started across the unmown field, "Through the bending grasses, Tall and lushy green, All alive with tiny things, Stirring feet and whirring wings Just an instant seen, "

and soon came in sight of the nest near the topmost twig of an oldapple-tree. 

It was about noon of a bright, sunny day, and I could see only that thenest was straw-color, apparently run over with little ones, and both theparents were industriously feeding. The cries suggested the persistenceof young orioles, but it was not a Baltimore's swinging cradle, and theold birds were so shy, coming from behind the leaves, every one of whichturned itself into a reflector for the sunlight, that I could notidentify them. 

Later in the day I paid them another visit, and finding a better post ofobservation under the shade of a sweet-briar bush, I saw at once theywere orchard orioles, and that the young ones were climbing to the edgeof the nest; I had nearly been too late!

Four o'clock was the unearthly hour at which I rose next morning topursue my acquaintance with the little family in the apple-tree, fearfullest they should get the start of me. The youngsters were callingvociferously, and both parents were very busy attending to their wantsand trying to stop their mouths, when I planted my seat before theircastle in the air, and proceeded to inquire into their manners andcustoms. My call was, as usual, not received with favor. The mother, after administering the mouthful she had brought, alighted on a twigbeside the nest and gave me a "piece of her mind. " I admitted my badmanners, but I could not tear myself away. The anxious papa, verygorgeous in his chestnut and black suit, scenting danger to the littlebrood in the presence of the bird-student with her glass, at onceabandoned the business of feeding, and devoted himself to the protectionof his family, --which indeed was his plain duty. His way of doing thiswas to take his position on the tallest tree in the vicinity, and fillthe serene morning air with his cry of distress, a two-note utterance, with a pathetic inflection which could not fail to arouse the sympathyof all who heard it. It was not excited or angry, but it proclaimed thathere was distress and danger, and it had the effect of making me ashamedof annoying him. But I hardened my heart, as I often have to do in mystudy, and kept my seat. Occasionally he returned to the lower part ofhis own tree, to see if the monster had been scared or shamed away, butfinding me stationary, he returned to his post and resumed his mournfulcry. 

At length the happy thought came to me that I might select a position alittle less conspicuous, yet still within sight, so I moved my seatfarther off, away back under a low-branched apple-tree, where a redbirdcame around with sharp "tsip's" to ascertain my business, and a catbirdbehind the briar-bush entertained me with delicious song. The orioleaccepted my retirement as a compromise, and returned to his domesticduties, coming, as was natural and easiest, on my side of the tree. Hishabit was to cling to the side of the nest, showing his black andred-gold against it, while his mate alighted on the edge, and was seen alittle above it. After feeding, both perched on neighboring twigs andlooked about for a moment before the next food-hunting trip. I thoughtthe father of the family exhibited an air of resignation, as if heconcluded that, since the babies made so much noise, there was no use intrying longer to preserve the secret. 

As a matter of fact, both our orioles need a good stock of patience aswell as of resignation, for the infants of both are unceasing in theircries, and fertile in inventing variations in manner and inflection, that would deceive those most familiar with them. Two or three times inthe weeks that followed, I rushed out of the house to find some verydistressed bird, who, I was sure, from the cries, must be impaled aliveon a butcher-bird's meat-hook, or undergoing torture at the hands--orbeak of somebody. It was rather dangerous going out at that time (justat dusk), for it was the chosen hour for young men and maidens, of whomthere were several, to wander about under the trees. Often, before Igave up going out at that hour, my glass, turned to follow a flittingwing, would bring before my startled gaze a pair of sentimental youngpersons, who doubtless thought I was spying upon them. My only safetywas in directing my glass into the trees, where nothing but wings couldbe sentimental, and if a bird flitted below the level of branches, toconsider him lost. On following up the cry, I always found a youngoriole and a hard-worked father feeding him. The voice did not evensuggest an oriole to me, until I had been deceived two or three timesand understood it. 

The young ones of the orchard oriole's nest lived up to the traditionsof the family by being inveterate cry-babies, and making so much noisethey could be heard far around. Sometimes their mother addressed themin a similar tone to their own, but the father resigned himself to theinevitable, and fed with dogged perseverance. 

The apple-tree nest looked in the morning sun of a bright flax color, and two of the young were mounted on the edge, dressing their yellowsatin breasts, and gleaming in the sunshine like gold. 

A Baltimore oriole, passing over, seemed to be attracted by a familiarquality of sound, for he came down, alighted about a foot from the nest, and looked with interest upon the charming family scene. The protectorof the pretty brood was near, but he kept his seat, and made noobjections to the friendly call. Indeed, he flew away while the guestwas still there, and having satisfied his curiosity, the Baltimore alsodeparted upon his own business. 

When the sun appeared over the tree-tops, he came armed with all histerrors. The breeze dwindled and died; the very leaves hung lifeless onthe trees, and though, knowing that

 "Somewhere the wind is blowing, Though here where I gasp and sigh Not a breath of air is stirring, Not a cloud in the burning sky, "

the memory might comfort me, it did not in the slightest degree make mecomfortable--I wilted, and retired before it. How the birds couldendure it and carry on their work, I could not understand. 

At noon I ventured out over the burning grass. The first youngster hadleft the nest, and was shouting from a tree perhaps twenty feet beyondthe native apple. The others were fluttering on the edge, crying asusual. As is the customary domestic arrangement with many birds, themoment the first one flew, the father stopped coming to the nest, anddevoted himself to the straggler, which was a little hard on the motherthat hot day, for she had four to feed. 

While I looked on, the second infant mustered up courage to start on thejourney of life. A tall twig led from the nest straight up into the air, and this was the ladder he mounted. Step by step he climbed oneleaf-stem after another, with several pauses to cry and to eat, and atlast reached the topmost point, where he turned his face to the west, and took his first survey of the kingdoms of the earth. A brothernestling was close behind him, and the pretty pair, seeing no more stepsabove them, rested a while from their labors. In the mean time the firstyoung oriole had gone farther into the trees, and papa with him. 

The little dame worked without ceasing, though it must have been ananxious time, with nestlings all stirring abroad. I noticed that shefed oftenest the birdlings who were out, whether to strengthen them forfurther effort, or to offer an inducement to those in the nest to comeup higher where food was to be had, she did not tell. I observed, also, that when she came home she did not, as before, alight on the level ofthe little ones, but above them. Perhaps this was to coax them upward;at any rate, it had that effect: they stretched up and mounted the nextstem above, and so they kept on ascending. About three o'clock I wasagain obliged to surrender to the power of the sun, and retire for aseason to a place he could not enter, the house. 

Some hours passed before I made my next call, and I found that oriolematters had not rested, if I had; the two nestlings had taken flight tothe tree the first one had chosen, and three were on the top twig abovethe nest, which latter swung empty and deserted. Mamma was feeding thethree in her own tree, while papa attended as usual to the outsiders, and found leisure to drop in a song now and then. 

While I watched, number three took his life in his hands (as it were)and launched out upon the air. He reached a tree not so far away as hisbrothers had chosen, and his mother sought him out and fed him there. But he did not seem to be satisfied with his achievement, or possiblyhe found the position rather lonely; at any rate, the next use of hiswings was to return to his native apple, to the lower part. During thisvisit, the mother of the little brood, seeing, I suppose, her laborsgrowing lighter, indulged herself and delighted me with a scrap of song, very sweet, as the song of the female oriole always is. 

It was with forebodings that I approached the tree the next morning, foreboding speedily confirmed--the whole family was gone! Either I hadnot stayed late enough or I had not got up early enough to see theflitting; that song, then, meant something--it was my good-by. 

Indeed it turned out to be my farewell, as I thought, for the wholetribe seemed to have vanished. Usually it is not difficult to hunt up alittle bird family in its wanderings, during the month following itsleaving the nest, but this one I could neither see nor hear, and I wasvery sure those oriole babies had not so soon outgrown their crying;they must have been struck dumb or left the place. 

Nearly three weeks later I was wandering about in what was called theglen, half a mile or more from where the apple-tree babies had firstseen the light. It was a wild spot, a ravine, through which ran astream, where many wood-birds sang and nested. On approaching alinden-tree loaded with blossoms, and humming with swarms of bees, I wassaluted with a burst of loud song, interspersed with scolding. No onebut an orchard oriole could so mix things, and sure enough! there hewas, scrambling over the flowers. Something he found to his taste, whether the blossoms or the insects, I could not decide. On waiting alittle, I heard the young oriole cry, much subdued since nesting days, and the tender "ye-ep" of the parent. The whole family was evidentlythere together, and I was very glad to see them once more. 

The nest, which I had brought down, was a beautiful structure, made, Ithink, of very fine excelsior of a bright straw-color. It was suspendedin an upright fork of four twigs, and lashed securely to three of them, while a few lines were passed around the fourth. Though it was in afork, it did not rest on it, but was suspended three inches above it, agenuine hanging nest. It was three inches deep and wide, but drawn inabout the top to a width of not more than two inches, with a bit ofcotton and two small feathers for bedding. How five babies could grow upin that little cup is a problem. The material was woven closelytogether, and in addition stitched through and through, up and down, tomake a firm structure. Around and against it hung still six apples, defrauded of their manifest destiny, and remaining the size ofhickory-nuts. Three twigs that ran up were cut off, but the fourth wasleft, the tallest, the one sustaining the burden of the nest, and uponwhich the young birds, one after another, had mounted to take theirfirst flight. 

This pretty hammock, in its setting of leaves and apples, still swingingfrom the apple boughs, I brought home as a souvenir of a charming birdstudy. 

XVII. 

CEDAR-TREE LITTLE FOLK. 

 'T is there that the wild dove has her nest, And whenever the branches stir, She presses closer the eggs to her breast, And her mate looks down on her. 

 CLARE BEATRICE COFFEY. 

One of the voices that helped to make my June musical, and one moreconstantly heard than any other, was that of the

 "Mourning dove who grieves and grieves, And lost! lost! lost! still seems to say, "

as the poet has it. 

Now, while I dearly love the poets, and always long to enrich my plainprose with gems from their verse, it is sometimes a little embarrassing, because one is obliged to disagree with them. If they would only look alittle into the ways of birds, and not assert, in language so musicalthat one can hardly resist it, that

 "The birds come back to last year's nests, "

when rarely was a self-respecting bird known to shirk the labor ofbuilding anew for every family; or sing, with Sill, "He has lost his last year's love, I know, "

when he did not know any such thing; and add, "A thrush forgets in a year, "

which I call a libel on one of our most intelligent birds; or cry, withanother singer, "O voiceless swallow, "

when not one of the whole tribe is defrauded of a voice, and at leastone is an exquisite singer; or accuse the nightingale of the superfluousidiocy of holding his (though they always say her) breast to a thorn ashe sings, as if he were so foolish as to imitate some forms of humanself-torture, --if they would only be a little more sure of their facts, what a comfort it would be to those who love both poets and birds!

No bird in our country is more persistently misrepresented by our sweetsingers than the Carolina or wood dove--mourning dove, as he ispopularly called; and in this case they are not to be blamed, for prosewriters, even natural history writers, are quite as bad. 

"His song consists, " says one, "of four notes: the first seems to beuttered with an inspiration of the breath, as if the afflicted creaturewere just recovering its voice from the last convulsive sob of distress, and followed by three long, deep, and mournful moanings, that no personof sensibility can listen to without sympathy. " "The solemn voice ofsorrow, " another writer calls it. All this is mere sentimentality, pureimagination; and if the writers could sit, as I have, under the treewhen the bird was singing, they would change their opinion, though theywould thereby lose a pretty and attractive sentiment for their verse. Ibelieve there is

 "No beast or bird in earth or sky, Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill, "

though it may not so express itself to our senses. Certainly the coo ofthe dove is anything but sad when heard very near. It has a rich, far-off sound, expressing deep serenity, and a happiness beyond words. 

First in the morning, and last at night, all through June, came to methe song of the dove. As early as four o'clock his notes began, andthen, if I got up to look out on the lawn, where I had spread breakfastfor him and other feathered friends, I would see him walking about withdainty steps on his pretty red toes, looking the pink of propriety inhis Quaker garb, his satin vest smooth as if it had been ironed down, and quite worthy his reputed character for meekness and gentleness. 

But I wanted to see the dove far from the "madding crowd" of blackbirds, blue jays, and red-heads, who, as well as himself, took corn forbreakfast, and I set out to look him up. At first the whole familyseemed to consist of the young, just flying about, sometimes accompaniedby their mother. Apparently the fathers of the race were all off in thecooing business. 

So early as the second of June I came upon my first pair of young doves, two charming little creatures, sitting placidly side by side. Grave, indeed, and very much grown-up looked these drab-coated little folk, silent and motionless, returning my gaze with an innocent openness that, it seemed to me, must disarm their most bitter enemy. When I came uponsuch a pair, as I frequently did, on the low branch of an apple-tree ora limb of their native cedar, I stopped instantly to look at them. Notan eyelid of the youngsters would move; if a head were turned as theyheard me coming, it would remain at precisely that angle as long as Ihad patience to stay. They were invariably sitting down with theappearance of being prepared to stay all day, and almost always side byside, though looking in different directions, and one was always largerthan the other. A lovely and picturesque group they never failed tomake, and as for any show of hunger or impatience, one could hardlyimagine they ever felt either. In every way they were a violentcontrast to all their neighbors, the boisterous blue jays, livelycatbirds, blustering robins, and vulgar-mannered blackbirds. 

Sometimes I chanced upon a mother sitting by her youngling, and althoughwhen I found her alone she always flew, beside her little charge she wasdignified and calm in bearing, and looked at me with fearless eyes, relying, as it appeared, upon absolute stillness, and the resemblance ofher color to the branches, to escape observation; a ruse which mustgenerally be successful. 

The nest, the remains of which I often saw on the tree where I found aninfant, was the merest apology, hardly more than a platform, just enoughto hold the pair of eggs which they are said always to contain. Indeed, no baby but a serene dove, with the repose of thirty generations behindit, could stay in it till his wings grew. As it is, he must be forced toperch, whether ready or not, for the structure cannot hold togetherlong. The wonder is that the eggs do not roll out before they arehatched. 

Several things made the bird an interesting subject for study; hisreputation for meekness, his alleged silence, --except at wooingtime, --and the halo of melancholy with which the poets have investedhim. I resolved to make acquaintance with my gentle neighbor, and Isought and found a favorite retreat of the silent family. This was agrove away down in the southeast corner of the grounds, little visitedby people, and beloved by birds of several kinds. Till June was halfover, the high grass, that I could not bear to trample, preventedexploration in that direction, but as soon as it was cut I made a tripto the little grove, and found it a sort of doves' headquarters, andthere, in many hours of daily study, I learned to know him a little, andrespect him a good deal. 

It was a delightful spot the doves had chosen to live in, and sofrequented by birds that whichever way I turned my face, in two minutesI wished I had turned it the other, or that I had eyes in the back of myhead. With reason, too, for the residents skipped around behind me, andall the interesting things went on at my back. I could hear the flit ofwings, low, mysterious sounds, whispering, gentle complaints andhushings, but if I turned--lo! the scene shifted, and the drama of lifewas still enacted out of my sight. Yet I managed, in spite of thisdifficulty, to learn several things I did not know before. 

No one attends to his own business more strictly than the dove. On theground, where he came for corn, he seemed to see no other bird, and paidnot the slightest heed to me in my window, but went about his ownaffairs in the most matter-of-fact way. Yet I cannot agree with thecommon opinion, which has made his name a synonym for all that is meekand gentle. He has a will of his own, and a "mild but firm" way ofsecuring it. Sometimes, when all were busy at the corn, one of myQuaker-clad guests would take a notion, for what reason I could notdiscover, that some other dove must not stay, and he would drive him (orher) off. He was not rude or blustering, like the robin, nor did he makeoffensive remarks, after the manner of a blackbird; he simply signifiedhis intention of having his neighbor go, and go he did, _nolens volens_. 

It was droll to see how this "meek and gentle" fellow met blackbirdimpudence. If one of the sable gentry came down too near a dove, thelatter gave a little hop and rustled his feathers, but did not move onestep away. For some occult reason the blackbird seemed to respect thismild protest, and did not interfere again. 

Would one suspect so solemn a personage of joking? yet what else couldthis little scene mean? A blackbird was on the ground eating, when adove flew down and hovered over him as though about to alight upon him. It evidently impressed the blackbird exactly as it did me, for hescrambled out from under, very hastily. But the dove had no intentionof the sort; he came calmly down on one side. 

The first dove baby who accompanied its parent to the ground to be fedwas the model of propriety one would expect from the demure infantalready mentioned. He stood crouching to the ground in silence, fluttering his wings a little, but making no sound, either of begging, or when fed. A blackbird came to investigate this youngster, sodifferent from his importunate offspring, upon which both doves flew. 

There is a unique quality claimed for the dove: that with the exceptionof the well-known coo in nesting time he is absolutely silent, and thatthe noise which accompanies his flight is the result of a peculiarformation of the wing that causes a whistle. Of this I had strongdoubts. I could not believe that a bird who has so much to say forhimself during wooing and nesting time could be utterly silent the restof the year; nor, indeed, do I believe that any living creature, sohighly organized as the feathered tribes, can be entirely withoutexpression. 

I thought I would experiment a little, and one day, observing that ayoung dove spent most of his time alone on a certain cedar-tree, where abadly used-up nest showed that he had probably been hatched, or feedingon the ground near it, I resolved to see if I could draw him out. Ipassed him six times a day, going and coming from my meals, and I alwaysstopped to look at him--a scrutiny which he bore unmoved, in dovefashion. So one morning, when I stood three feet from him, I began avery low whistle to him. He was at once interested, and after aboutthree calls he answered me, very low, it is true, but stillunmistakably. Though he replied, however, it appeared to make himuneasy, for while he had been in the habit of submitting to my staringwithout being in any way disconcerted, he now began to fidget about. Hestood up, changed his place, flew to a higher branch, and in a fewmoments to the next tree; all the time, however, answering my calls. 

I was greatly interested in my new acquaintance, and the next day Irenewed my advances. As before, he answered, looking bright and eager, as I had never seen one of his kind look, and after three or fourreplies he became uneasy, as on the previous day, and in a moment heflew. But I was surprised and startled by his starting straight for me. I thought he would certainly alight on me, and such, I firmly believe, was his inclination, but he apparently did not quite dare trust me, sohe passed over by a very few inches, and perched on the tree I wasunder. Then--still replying to me--he flew to the ground not six feetfrom me, and step by step, slowly moved away perhaps fifteen feet, whenhe turned and flew back to his own tree beside me. I was pleased tonotice that the voice of this talkative dovekin was of the same qualityas the "whistling" said to be of the wings, when a dove flies. 

The last interview I had with the dear baby, I found him sitting withhis back toward me, but the instant I whistled he turned around to faceme, and seated himself again. He replied to me, and fluttered his wingsslightly, yet he soon became restless, as usual. He did not fly, however, and he answered louder than he had done previously, but I foundthat my call must be just right to elicit a response. I might whistleall day and he would pay no attention, till I uttered a two-note call, the second note a third above the first and the two slurred together. Iwas delighted to find that even a dove, and a baby at that, could "talkback. " He was unique in other ways; for example, in being content topass his days in, and around, his own tree. I do not believe he had everbeen farther than a small group of cedars, ten feet from his own. Ialways found him there, though he could fly perfectly well. Thisinterview was, I regret to say, the last; the next morning my littlefriend was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps mamma thought he was getting toofriendly with one of a race capable of eating a baby dove. 

After this episode in my dove acquaintance, I was more than everinterested in getting at the mode of expression in the family, and Ilistened on every occasion. One day two doves alighted over my head whenI was sitting perfectly still, and I distinctly heard very low talk, like that of my lost baby; there was, in addition, a note or two likethe coo, but exceedingly low. I could not have heard a sound ten feetfrom the tree, nor if I had been stirring myself. I observed also that adove can fly in perfect silence; and, moreover, that the whistle of thewings sometimes continues after the bird has become still. I heard theregular coo--the whole four-note performance--both in a whisper and inthe ordinary tone, and the latter, though right over my head, sounded amile away. At the end of my month's study I was convinced that the doveis far from being a silent bird; on the contrary, he is quite a talker, with the "low, sweet voice" so much desired in other quarters. Andfurther, that the whistling is not produced wholly (if at all) by thewings, and it is a gross injustice to assert that he is not capable ofexpressing himself at all times and seasons. 

BESIDE THE GREAT SALT LAKE. 

 Up!--If thou knew'st who calls To twilight parks of beach and pine High o'er the river intervals, Above the plowman's highest line, Over the owner's farthest walls! Up! where the airy citadel O'erlooks the surging landscape's swell!

 EMERSON. 

XVIII. 

IN A PASTURE. 

The word "pasture, " as used on the shore of the Great Salt Lake, conveysno true idea to one whose associations with that word have been formedin States east of the Rocky Mountains. Imagine an extensive inclosure onthe side of a mountain, with its barren-looking soil strewn with rocksof all sizes, from a pebble to a bowlder, cut across by an irrigatingditch or a mountain brook, dotted here and there by sage bushes, andpatches of oak-brush, and wild roses, and one has a picture of a SaltLake pasture. Closely examined, it has other peculiarities. There is nohalf way in its growths, no shading off, so to speak, as elsewhere; notan isolated shrub, not a solitary tree, flourishes in the strange soil, but trees and shrubs crowd together as if for protection, and the clump, of whatever size or shape, ends abruptly, with the desert coming up toits very edge. Yet the soil, though it seems to be the driest and mostunpromising of baked gray mud, needs nothing more than a little water, to clothe itself luxuriantly; the course of a brook or even anirrigating ditch, if permanent, is marked by a thick and varied borderof greenery. What the poor creatures who wandered over those drearywastes could find to eat was a problem to be solved only by closeobservation of their ways. 

"H. H. " said some years ago that the magnificent yucca, the glory of theColorado mesas, was being exterminated by wandering cows, who ate thebuds as soon as they appeared. The cattle of Utah--or their owners--havea like crime to answer for; not only do they constantly feed uponrose-buds and leaves, notwithstanding the thorns, but they regalethemselves upon nearly every flower-plant that shows its head; lupineswere the chosen dainty of my friend's horse. The animals become expertat getting this unnatural food; it is curious to watch the deftness withwhich a cow will go through a currant or gooseberry bush, thrusting herhead far down among the branches, and carefully picking off the tenderleaves, while leaving the stems untouched, and the matter-of-course wayin which she will bend over and pull down a tall sapling, to despoil itof its foliage. 

In a pasture such as I have described, on the western slope of one ofthe Rocky Mountains, desolate and forbidding though it looked, manyhours of last summer's May and June "went their way, " if not

 "As softly as sweet dreams go down the night, "

certainly with interest and pleasure to two bird-students whose ways Ihave sometimes chronicled. 

Most conspicuous, as we toiled upward toward our breezy pasture, was abird whose chosen station was a fence--a wire fence at that. He was atanager; not our brilliant beauty in scarlet and black, but one far moregorgeous and eccentric in costume, having, with the black wings and tailof our bird, a breast of shining yellow and a cap of crimson. Hisoccupation on the sweet May mornings that he lingered with us, on hisway up the mountains for the summer, was the familiar one of getting hisliving, and to that he gave his mind without reserve. Not once did heturn curious eyes upon us as we sauntered by or rested awhile to watchhim. Eagerly his pretty head turned this way and that, but not for us;it was for the winged creatures of the air he looked, and when one thatpleased his fancy fluttered by he dashed out and secured it, returningto a post or the fence just as absorbed and just as eager for the nextone. Every time he alighted it was a few feet farther down the fence, and thus he worked his way out of our sight, without seeming aware ofour existence. 

This was not stupidity on the part of the crimson-head, nor was itfoolhardiness; it was simply trust in his guardian, for he had one, --onewho watched every movement of ours with close attention, whose vigilancewas never relaxed, and who appeared, when we saw her, to be above theneed of food. A plain personage she was, clad in modest, dullyellow, --the female tanager. She was probably his mate; at any rate, shegradually followed him down the fence, keeping fifteen or twenty feetbehind him, all the time with an eye on us, ready to give warning of theslightest aggressive movement on our part. It would be interesting toknow how my lord behaves up in those sky-parlors where their summerhomes are made. No doubt he is as tender and devoted as most of his race(all his race, I would say, if Mr. Torrey had not shaken our faith inthe ruby-throat), and I have no doubt that the little red-heads in thenest will be well looked after and fed by their fly-catching papa. 

Far different from the cool unconcern of the crimson-headed tanager werethe manners of another red-headed dweller on the mountain. Thegreen-tailed towhee he is called in the books, though the red of hishead is much more conspicuous than the green of his tail. In this birdthe high-bred repose of his neighbor was replaced by the most fussyrestlessness. When we surprised him on the lowest wire of the fence, hewas terribly disconcerted, not to say thrown into a panic. He usuallystood a moment, holding his long tail up in the air, flirted his wings, turned his body this way and that in great excitement, then hopped tothe nearest bowlder, slipped down behind it, and ran off through thesage bushes like a mouse. More than this we were never able to see, andwhere he lived and how his spouse looked we do not know to this day. 

Most interesting of the birds that we saw on our daily way to thepasture were the gulls; great, beautiful, snowy creatures, who lookedstrangely out of place so far away from the seashore. Stranger, too, than their change of residence was their change of manners from thewild, unapproachable sea-birds, soaring and diving, and apparentlyspending their lives on wings such as the poet sings, --

 "When I had wings, my brother, Such wings were mine as thine;"

and of whose lives he further says, --

 "What place man may, we claim it, But thine, --whose thought may name it? Free birds live higher than freemen, And gladlier ye than we. "

From this high place in our thoughts, from this realm of poetry andmystery, to come down almost to the tameness of the barnyard fowl is amarvelous transformation, and one is tempted to believe the solemnannouncement of the Salt Lake prophet, that the Lord sent them to hischosen people. 

The occasion of this alleged special favor to the Latter Day Saints wasthe advent, about twenty years ago, of clouds of grasshoppers, beforewhich the crops of the Western States and Territories were destroyed asby fire. It was then, in their hour of greatest need, when the food uponwhich depended a whole people was threatened, that these beautifulwinged messengers appeared. In large flocks they came, from no one knowswhere, and settled, like so many sparrows, all over the land, devouringalmost without ceasing the hosts of the foe. The crops were saved, andall Deseret rejoiced. Was it any wonder that a people trained to regardthe head of their church as the direct representative of the Highestshould believe these to be really birds of God, and should accordinglycherish them? Well would it be for themselves if other Christian peopleswere equally believing, and protected and cherished other wingedmessengers, sent just as truly to protect their crops. 

The shrewd man who wielded the destinies of his people beside the SaltLake secured the future usefulness of what they considered themiraculous visitation by fixing a penalty of five dollars upon the headof every gull in the Territory. And now, the birds having foundcongenial nesting-places on solitary islands in the lake, theirdescendants are so fearless and so tame that they habitually follow theplow like a flock of chickens, rising from almost under the feet of theindifferent horses and settling down at once in the furrow behind, seeking out and eating greedily all the worms and grubs and larvæ andmice and moles that the plow has disturbed in its passage. The Mormoncultivator has sense enough to appreciate such service, and no man orboy dreams of lifting a finger against his best friend. 

Extraordinary indeed was this sight to eyes accustomed to seeing everybird who attempts to render like service shot and snared and swept fromthe face of the earth. Our hearts warmed toward the "Sons of Zion, " andour respect for their intelligence increased, as we hurried down to thefield to see this latter-day wonder. 

Whether the birds distinguished between "saints" and sinners, or whethertheir confidence extended only to plow-boys, they would not let us comenear them. But our glasses brought them close, and we had a very goodstudy of them, finding exceeding interest in their ways: their quaintfaces as they flew toward us; their dignified walk; their expression ofdisapproval, lifting the wings high above the back till they met; theirqueer and constant cries in the tone of a child who whines; and, aboveall, their use of the wonderful wings, --"half wing, half wave, " Mrs. Spofford calls them. 

To rise from the earth upon these beautiful great arms, seemed to be notso easy as it looks. Some of the graceful birds lifted them, and ran alittle before leaving the ground, and all of them left both legshanging, and both feet jerking awkwardly at every wing-beat, for a fewmoments on starting, before they carefully drew each flesh-colored footup into its feather pillow, "And gray and silver up the dome Of gray and silver skies went sailing, "

in ever-widening circles, without moving a feather that we couldperceive. It was charming to see how nicely they folded down theirsplendid wings on alighting, stretching each one out, and apparentlystraightening every feather before laying it into its place. 

Several hours this interesting flock accompanied the horses and manaround the field, taking possession of each furrow as it was laid open, and chattering and eating as fast as they could; and the questionoccurred to me, if a field that is thoroughly gleaned over every springfurnishes so great a supply of creatures hurtful to vegetation, whatmust be the state of grounds which are carefully protected from suchgleaning, on which no bird is allowed to forage?

As noon approached, the hour when "birds their wise siesta take, "although the plow did not cease its monotonous round, the birds retiredin a body to the still untouched middle of the field, and settledthemselves for their "nooning, " dusting themselves--their snowyplumes!--like hens on an ash heap, sitting about in knots like partiesof ducks, preening and shaking themselves out, or going at once tosleep, according to their several tastes. Half an hour's rest sufficedfor the more active spirits, and then they treated us, their patientobservers, to an aërial exhibition. A large number, perhaps threequarters of the flock, rose in a body and began a spiral flight. Higherand higher they went, in wider and wider circles, till, against thewhite clouds, they looked like a swarm of midges, and against the bluethe eye could not distinguish them. Then from out of the sky dropped oneafter another, leaving the soaring flock looking wonderfully etherealand gauzy in the clear air, with the sun above him, almost like a spiritbird gliding motionless through the ether till he alighted at lastquietly beside his fellows on the ground. In another half hour they wereall behind the plow again, hard at work. 

When we had looked our fill, we straightway sought out and questionedsome of the wise men among the "peculiar people. " This is what welearned: that when plowing is over the birds retire to their home, anisland in the lake, where, being eminently social birds, their nests arebuilt in a community. Their beneficent service to mankind does not endwith the plowing season, for when that is over they turn their attentionto the fish that are brought into the lake by the fresh-water streams, at once strangled by its excess of salt, and their bodies washed up onthe shore. What would become of the human residents if that animaldeposit were left for the fierce sun to dispose of, may perhaps beimagined. The gull should, indeed, be a sacred bird in Utah. 

What drew us first to the pasture--which we came to at last--was oursearch for a magpie's nest. The home of this knowing fellow is the RockyMountain region, and, naturally, he was the first bird we thought oflooking for. There would be no difficulty in finding nests, we thought, for we came upon magpies everywhere in our walks. Now one alighted on afence-post a few yards ahead of us, earnestly regarding our approach, tilting upward his long, expressive tail, the black of his plumageshining with brilliant blue reflections, and the white fairly dazzlingthe eyes. Again we caught glimpses of two or three of the beautifulbirds walking about on the ground, holding their precious tails well upfrom the earth, and gleaning industriously the insect life of the horsepasture. At one moment we were saluted from the top of a tall tree, orshrieked at by one passing over our heads, looking like an immensedragonfly against the sky. Magpie voices were heard from morning tillnight; strange, loud calls of "mag! mag!" were ever in our ears. "Oh, yes, " we had said, "we must surely go out some morning and find a nest. "

First we inquired. Everybody knew where they built, in oak-brush or inapple-trees, but not a boy in that village knew where there was a nest. Oh, no, not one! A man confessed to the guilty secret, and, directed byhim, we took a long walk through the village with its queer littlehouses, many of them having the two front doors which tell the tale ofMormondom within; up the long sidewalk, with a beautiful boundingmountain brook running down the gutter, as if it were a tame irrigatingditch, to a big gate in a "combination fence. " What this latter might bewe had wondered, but relied upon knowing it when we saw it, --and we did:it was a fence of laths held together by wires woven between them, andwe recognized the fitness of the name instantly. Then on through thebig gate, down a long lane where we ran the gauntlet of the family cows;over or under bars, where awaited us a tribe of colts with their anxiousmammas; and at last to the tree and the nest. There our guide met us andclimbed up to explore. Alas! the nest robber had anticipated us. 

Slowly we took our way home, resolved to ask no more help, but to seekfor ourselves, for the nest that is _known_ is the nest that is robbed. So the next morning, armed with camp-chairs and alpenstocks, drinking-cups and notebooks, we started up the mountain, where we couldat least find solitude, and the fresh air of the hills. We climbed tillwe were tired, and then, as was our custom, sat down to rest andbreathe, and see who lived in that part of the world. Without thought ofthe height we had reached, we turned our backs to the mountain, risingbare and steep before us, and behold! the outlook struck us dumb. 

There at our feet lay the village, smothered in orchards andshade-trees, the locusts, just then huge bouquets of graceful bloom anddelicious odor, buzzing with hundreds of bees and humming-birds; beyondwas a stretch of cultivated fields in various shades of green and brown;and then the lake, --beautiful and wonderful Salt Lake, --glowing withexquisite colors, now hyacinth blue, changing in places to tender greenor golden brown, again sparkling like a vast bed of diamonds. In theforeground lay Antelope Island, in hues of purple and bronze, with itschain of hills and graceful sky-line; and resting on the horizon beyondwere the peaks of the grand Oquirrhs, capped with snow. Well might weforget our quest while gazing on this impressive scene, trying to fixits various features in our memories, to be an eternal possession. 

We were recalled to the business in hand by the sudden appearance on thetop of a tree below us of one of the birds we sought. The branch bentand swayed as the heavy fellow settled upon it, and in a moment acomrade came, calling vigorously, and alighted on a neighboring branch. A few minutes they remained, with flirting tails, conversing ingarrulous tones, then together they rose on broad wings, and passedaway--away over the fields, almost out of sight, before they droppedinto a patch of oak-brush. After them appeared others, and we sat therea long time, hoping to see at least one that had its home within ourreach. But every bird that passed over turned its face to the mountains;some seemed to head for the dim Oquirrhs across the lake, while othersdisappeared over the top of the Wasatch behind us; not one paused inour neighborhood, excepting long enough to look at us, and express itsopinion in loud and not very polite tones. 

It was then and there that we noticed our pasture; the entrance wasbeside us. Shall we go in? was always the question before an inclosure. We looked over the wall. It was plainly the abode of horses, meekwork-a-day beings, who certainly would not resent our intrusion. Oak-brush was there in plenty, and that is the chosen home of themagpie. We hesitated; we started for the gate. It was held in place by arope elaborately and securely tied in many knots; but we had learnedsomething about the gates of this "promised land, "--that between theposts and the stone wall may usually be found space enough to slipthrough without disturbing the fastenings. 

In that country no one goes through a gate who can possibly go aroundit, and well is it indeed for the stranger and the wayfarer in "Zion"that such is the custom, for the idiosyncrasies of gates were endless;they agreed only in never fitting their place and never openingproperly. If the gate was in one piece, it sagged so that it must belifted; or it had lost one hinge, and fell over on the rash individualwho loosened the fastenings; or it was about falling to pieces, and mustbe handled like a piece of choice bric-a-brac. If it had a latch, itwas rusty or did not fit; and if it had not, it was fastened, either bya board slipped in to act as a bar and never known to be of proper size, or in some occult way which would require the skill of "the lady fromPhiladelphia" to undo. If it was of the fashion that opens in themiddle, each individual gate had its particular "kink, " which must belearned by the uninitiated before he--or, what is worse, she--couldpass. Many were held together by a hoop or link of iron, dropped overthe two end posts; but whether the gate must be pulled out or pushed in, and at exactly what angle it would consent to receive the link, was tobe found out only by experience. 

But not all gates were so simple even as this: the ingenuity with whicha variety of fastenings, --all to avoid the natural and obvious one of ahook and staple, --had been evolved in the rural mind was fairlystartling. The energy and thought that had been bestowed upon thislittle matter of avoiding a gate-hook would have built a bridge acrossSalt Lake, or tunneled the Uintas for an irrigating ditch. 

Happily, we too had learned to "slip through, " and we passed the gatewith its rope puzzle, and the six or eight horses who pointed inquiringears toward their unwonted visitors, and hastened to get under coverbefore the birds, if any lived there, should come home. 

The oak-brush, which we then approached, is a curious and interestingform of vegetation. It is a mass of oak-trees, all of the same age, growing as close as they can stand, with branches down to the ground. Itlooks as if each patch had sprung from a great fall of acorns from onetree, or perhaps were shoots from the roots of a perished tree. Theclumps are more or less irregularly round, set down in a barren piece ofground, or among the sage bushes. At a distance, on the side of amountain, they resemble patches of moss of varying shape. When two orthree feet high, one is a thick, solid mat; when it reaches an altitudeof six to eight feet, it is an impenetrable thicket; except, that is, when it happens to be in a pasture. Horses and cattle find such scantypickings in the fields, that they nibble every green thing, even oakleaves, and so they clear the brush as high as they can reach. Whentherefore it is fifteen feet high, there is a thick roof the animals arenot able to reach, and one may look through a patch to the light beyond. The stems and lower branches, though kept bare of leaves, are so closetogether and so intertwined and tangled, that forcing one's way throughit is an impossibility. But the horses have made and kept open paths inevery direction, and this turns it into a delightful grove, a coolretreat, which others appreciate as well as the makers. 

Selecting a favorable-looking clump of oak-brush, we attempted to get inwithout using the open horse paths, where we should be in plain sight. Melancholy was the result; hats pulled off, hair disheveled, garmentstorn, feet tripped, and wounds and scratches innumerable. Severalminutes of hard work and stubborn endurance enabled us to penetrate notmore than half a dozen feet, when we managed, in some sort of fashion, to sit down, on opposite sides of the grove. Then, relying upon our"protective coloring" (not evolved, but carefully selected in theshops), we subsided into silence, hoping not to be observed when thebirds came home, for there was the nest before us. 

A wise and canny builder is Madam Mag, for though her home must be largeto accommodate her size, and conspicuous because of the shallowness ofthe foliage above her, it is, in a way, a fortress, to despoil which themarauder must encounter a weapon not to be despised, --a stout beak, animated and impelled by indignant motherhood. The structure was made ofsticks, and enormous in size; a half-bushel measure would hardly holdit. It was covered, as if to protect her, and it had two openings underthe cover, toward either of which she could turn her face. It lookedlike a big, coarsely woven basket resting in a crotch up under theleaves, with a nearly close cover supported by a small branch above. The sitting bird could draw herself down out of sight, or she coulddefend herself and her brood, at either entrance. 

In my retreat, I had noted all these points before any sign of lifeappeared in the brush. Then there came a low cry of "mag! mag!" and thebird entered near the ground. She alighted on a dead branch, which swungback and forth, while she kept her balance with her beautiful tail. Shedid not appear to look around; apparently she had no suspicions and didnot notice us, sitting motionless and breathless in our respectiveplaces. Her head was turned to the nest, and by easy stages and withmany pauses, she made her way to it. I could not see that she had acompanion, for I dared not stir so much as a finger; but while she movedabout near the nest there came to the eager listeners on the ground lowand tender utterances in the sweetest of voices, --whether one or two Iknow not, --and at last a song, a true melody, of a yearning, thrillingquality that few song-birds, if any, can excel. I was astounded! Whowould suspect the harsh-voiced, screaming magpie of such notes! I amcertain that the bird or birds had no suspicion of listeners to the hometalk and song, for after we were discovered, we heard nothing of thesort. 

This little episode ended, madam slipped into her nest, and all becamesilent, she in her place and I in mine. If this state of things couldonly remain; if she would only accept me as a tree-trunk or a misshapenbowlder, and pay no attention to me, what a beautiful study I shouldhave! Half an hour, perhaps more, passed without a sound, and then thesilence was broken by magpie calls from without. The sitting bird leftthe nest and flew out of the grove, quite near the ground; I heard muchtalk and chatter in low tones outside, and they flew. I slipped out asquickly as possible, wishing indeed that I had wings as she had, andwent home, encouraged to think I should really be able to study themagpie. 

But I did not know my bird. The next day, before I knew she was about, she discovered me, though it was plain that she hoped I had notdiscovered her. Instantly she became silent and wary, coming to her nestover the top of the trees, so quietly that I should not have known itexcept for her shadow on the leaves. No talk or song now fell upon myear; calls outside were few and subdued. Everything was different fromthe natural unconsciousness of the previous day; the birds were onguard, and henceforth I should be under surveillance. 

From this moment I lost my pleasure in the study, for I feel littleinterest in the actions of a bird under the constraint of an unwelcomepresence, or in the shadow of constant fear and dread. What I care tosee is the natural life, the free, unstudied ways of birds who do notnotice or are not disturbed by spectators. Nor have I any pleasure ingoing about the country staring into every tree, and poking into everybush, thrusting irreverent hands into the mysteries of other lives, andrudely tearing away the veils that others have drawn around theirprivate affairs. That they are only birds does not signify to me; for methey are fellow-creatures; they have rights, which I am bound torespect. 

I prefer to make myself so little obvious, or so apparently harmless toa bird, that she will herself show me her nest, or at least the leafyscreen behind which it is hidden. Then, if I take advantage of herabsence to spy upon her treasures, it is as a friend only, --a friend whorespects her desire for seclusion, who never lays profane hands uponthem, and who shares the secret only with one equally reverent andloving. Naturally I do not find so many nests as do the vandals to whomnothing is sacred, but I enjoy what I do find, in a way it hath notentered into their hearts to conceive. 

In spite of my disinclination, we made one more call upon the magpiefamily, and this time we had a reception. This bird is intelligent andby no means a slave to habit; because he has behaved in a certain wayonce, there is no law, avian or divine, that compels him to repeat thatconduct on the next occasion. Nor is it safe to generalize about him, orany other bird for that matter. One cannot say, "The magpie does thusand so, " because each individual magpie has his own way of doing, andcircumstances alter cases, with birds as well as with people. 

On this occasion we placed ourselves boldly, though very quietly, in thepaths that run through the oak-brush. We had abandoned all attempt atconcealment; we could hope only for tolerance. The birds readilyunderstood; they appreciated that they were seen and watched, and theirmanners changed accordingly. The first one of the black-and-white gentrywho entered the grove discovered my comrade, and announced the presenceof the enemy by a loud cry, in what somebody has aptly called a"frontier tone of voice. " Instantly another appeared and added hisremarks; then another, and still another, till within five minutes therewere ten or twelve excited magpies, shouting at the top of their voices, and hopping and flying about her head, coming ever nearer and nearer, asif they meditated a personal attack. I did not really fear it, but Ikept close watch, while remaining motionless, in the hope that theywould not notice me. Vain hope! nothing could escape those sharp eyeswhen once the bird was aroused. After they had said what they chose tomy friend, who received the taunts and abuse of the infuriated mob inmeek silence, lifting not her voice to reply, they turned the stream oftheir eloquence upon me. 

I was equally passive, for indeed I felt that they had a grievance. Wehave no right to expect birds to tell one human being from another, solong as we, with all our boasted intelligence, cannot tell one crow orone magpie from another; and all the week they had suffered persecutionat the hands of the village boys. Young magpies, nestlings, were innearly every house, and the birds had endured pillage, and doubtlesssome of them death. I did not blame the grieved parents for thereception they gave us; from their point of view we belonged to theenemy. 

After the storm had swept by, and while we sat there waiting to see ifthe birds would return, one of the horses of the pasture made hisappearance on the side where I sat, now eating the top of a rosebush, now snipping off a flower plant that had succeeded in getting two leavesabove the ground, but at every step coming nearer me. It was plain thathe contemplated retiring to this shady grove, and, not so observing asthe magpies, did not see that it was already occupied. When he was notmore than ten feet away, I snatched off my sun hat and waved it beforehim, not wishing to make a noise. He stopped instantly, stared wildlyfor a moment, as if he had never seen such an apparition, then wheeledwith a snort, flung out his heels in disrespect, and galloped off downthe field. 

The incident was insignificant, but the result was curious. So long aswe stayed in that bit of brush, not a horse attempted to enter, thoughthey all browsed around outside. They avoided it as if it were haunted, or, as my comrade said, "filled with beckoning forms. " Nor was that all;I have reason to think they never again entered that particular patch ofbrush, for, some weeks after we had abandoned the study of magpies andthe pasture altogether, we found the spot transformed, as if by the wandof enchantment. From the burned-up desert outside we stepped at onceinto a miniature paradise, to our surprise, almost our consternation. Excepting the footpaths through it, it bore no appearance of having everbeen a thoroughfare. Around the foot of every tree had grown up clumpsof ferns or brakes, a yard high, luxuriant, graceful, and exquisite inform and color; and peeping out from under them were flowers, daintywildings we had not before seen there. A bit of the tropics or a gem outof fairyland it looked to our sun and sand weary eyes. Outside were theburning sun of June, a withering hot wind, and yellow and deadvegetation; within was cool greenness and a mere rustle of leaveswhispering of the gale. It was the loveliest bit of greenery we saw onthe shores of the Great Salt Lake. It was marvelous; it was almostuncanny. 

Our daily trips to the pasture had ceased, and other birds and othernests had occupied our thoughts for a week or two, when we resolved topay a last visit to our old haunts, to see if we could learn anything ofthe magpies. We went through the pasture, led by the voices of the birdsaway over to the farther side, and there, across another fenced pasture, we heard them plainly, calling and chattering and making much noise, butin different tones from any we had heard before. Evidently a magpienursery had been established over there. We fancied we could distinguishmaternal reproof and loving baby talk, beside the weaker voices of theyoung, and we went home rejoicing to believe, that in spite of nestrobbers, and the fright we had given them, some young magpies weregrowing up to enliven the world another summer. 

XIX. 

THE SECRET OF THE WILD ROSE PATH. 

 "Shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice?"

Wordsworth's lines are addressed to the cuckoo of the Old World, a birdof unenviable reputation, notorious for imposing his most sacred dutiesupon others; naturally, therefore, one who would not court observation, and whose ways would be somewhat mysterious. But the Americanrepresentative of the family is a bird of different manners. Unlike hisnamesake across the water, our cuckoo never--or so rarely as practicallyto be never--shirks the labor of nest-building and raising a family. Hehas no reason to skulk, and though always a shy bird, he is no more sothan several others, and in no sense is he a mystery. 

There is, however, one American bird for whom Wordsworth's verse mighthave been written; one whose chief aim seems to be, reversing ourgrandmothers' rule for little people, to be heard, and not seen. To beseen is, with this peculiar fellow, a misfortune, an accident, which heavoids with great care, while his voice rings out loud and clear aboveall others in the shrubbery. I refer to the yellow-breasted chat(_Icteria virens_), whose summer home is the warmer temperate regions ofour country, from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast, and whoseunbirdlike utterances prepare one to believe the stories told of hiseccentric actions; this, for example, by Dr. Abbott:--

 "Aloft in the sunny air he springs; To his timid mate he calls; With dangling legs and fluttering wings On the tangled smilax falls; He mutters, he shrieks-- A hopeless cry; You think that he seeks In peace to die, But pity him not; 't is the ghostly chat, An imp if there is one, be sure of that. "

I first knew the chat--if one may be said to know a creature so shy--ina spot I have elsewhere described, a deserted park at the foot ofCheyenne Mountain. I became familiar with his various calls and cries(one can hardly call them songs); I secured one or two fleeting glimpsesof his graceful form; I sought and discovered the nest, which thereuponmy Lady Chat promptly abandoned, though I had not laid a finger upon it;and last of all, I had the sorrow and shame of knowing that mycuriosity had driven the pair from the neighborhood. This was theWestern form of _Icteria_, differing from the Eastern only in a greaterlength of tail, which several of our Rocky Mountain birds affect, forthe purpose, apparently, of puzzling the ornithologist. 

Two years after my unsuccessful attempt to cultivate friendly relationswith "the ghostly chat, " the middle of May found me on the shore of theGreat Salt Lake, where I settled myself at the foot of the WasatchMountains, at that point bare, gray, and unattractive, showing miles ofloose bowlders and great patches of sage-bush. In the monotonousstretches of this shrub, each plant of which looks exactly like everyother, dwelt many shy birds, as well hidden as bobolinks in the meadowgrass, or meadow-larks in the alfalfa. 

But on this mountain side no friendly cover existed from which I couldspy out bird secrets. Whatever my position, and wherever I placedmyself, I was as conspicuous as a tower in the middle of a plain; again, no shadow of protection was there from the too-ardent sun of Utah, whichdrew the vitality from my frame as it did the color from my gown; worsethan these, the everywhere present rocks were the chosen haunts of theone enemy of a peaceful bird lover, the rattlesnake, and I hesitated topursue the bird, because I invariably forgot to watch and listen for thereptile. Bird study under these conditions was impossible, but the placepresented a phase of nature unfamiliar to me, and for a time sofascinating that every morning my steps turned of themselves "up thestony pathway to the hills. "

The companion of my walks, a fellow bird-student, was more thanfascinated; she was enraptured. The odorous bush had associations forher; she reveled in it; she inhaled its fragrance as a deliciousperfume; she filled her pockets with it; she lay for hours at a time onthe ground, where she could bask in the sunshine, and see nothing butthe gray leaves around her and the blue sky above. 

I can hardly tell what was the fascination for me. It was certainly notthe view of the mountains, though mountains are beyond words in myaffections. The truth is, the Rocky Mountains, many of them, need acertain distance to make them either picturesque or dignified. The rangethen daily before our eyes, the Wasatch, was, to dwellers at its feet, bleak, monotonous, and hopelessly prosaic. The lowest foothills, beingnear, hid the taller peaks, as a penny before the eye will hide a wholelandscape. 

Let me not, however, be unjust to the mountains I love. There is arange which satisfies my soul, and will rest in my memory forever, abeautiful picture, or rather a whole gallery of pictures. I can shut myeyes and see it at this moment, as I have seen it a thousand times. Inthe early morning, when the level sun shines on its face, it is like onecontinuous mountain reaching across the whole western horizon; it has abroken and beautiful sky line; Pike's Peak looms up toward the middle, and lovely Cheyenne ends it in graceful slope on the south; lights andshadows play over it; its colors change with the changing sky oratmosphere, --sometimes blue as the heavens, sometimes misty as a dream;it is wonderfully beautiful then. But wait till the sun gets higher;look again at noon, or a little later. Behold the whole range has sprunginto life, separated into individuals; gorges are cut where none hadappeared; chasms come to light; cañons and all sorts of divisions areseen; foothills move forward to their proper places, and taller peaksturn at angles to each other; shapes and colors that one never suspectedcome out in the picture: the transformation is marvelous. But the sunmoves on, the magical moment passes, each mountain slips back into line, and behold, you see again the morning's picture. 

Indulge me one moment, while I try to show you the last pictureimpressed upon my memory as the train bore me, unwilling, away. It wascloudy, a storm was coming up, and the whole range was in deep shadow, when suddenly through some rift in the clouds a burst of sunshine fellupon the "beloved mountain" Cheyenne, and upon it alone. In a moment itwas a smiling picture, "Glad With light as with a garment it was clad;"

all its inequalities, its divisions, its irregularities emphasized, itsgreens turned greener, its reds made more glowing, --an unequaled gem fora parting gift. 

To come back to Utah. One morning, on our way up to the heights, as wewere passing a clump of oak-brush, a bird cry rang out. The voice wasloud and clear, and the notes were of a peculiar character: first a"chack" two or three times repeated, then subdued barks like those of adistressed puppy, followed by hoarse "mews" and other sounds suggestingalmost any creature rather than one in feathers. But with delight Irecognized the chat; my enthusiasm instantly revived. I unfolded my campchair, placed myself against a stone wall on the opposite side of theroad, and became silent and motionless as the wall itself. 

My comrade, on the contrary, as was her custom, proceeded with equalpromptness to follow the bird up, to hunt him out. She slipped betweenthe barbed wires which, quite unnecessarily, one would suppose, defendedthe bleak pasture from outside encroachment, and passed out of sightdown an obscure path that led into the brush where the bird was hidden. Though our ways differ, or rather, perhaps, _because_ our ways differ, we are able to study in company. Certainly this circumstance provedavailable in circumventing the wily chat, and that happened which hadhappened before: in fleeing from one who made herself obvious to him, hepresented himself, an unsuspecting victim, to another who sat like astatue against the wall. To avoid his pursuer, the bird slipped throughthe thick foliage of the low oaks, and took his place on the outside, infull view of me, but looking through the branches at the movementswithin so intently that he never turned his eyes toward me. This gave mean opportunity to study his manners that is rare indeed, for a chat offhis guard is something inconceivable. 

He shouted out his whole _répertoire_ (or so it seemed) with greatvehemence, now "peeping" like a bird in the nest, then "chacking" like ablackbird, mewing as neatly as pussy herself, and varying these calls bythe rattling of castanets and other indescribable sounds. His perch washalf way down the bush; his trim olive-drab back and shining goldenbreast were in their spring glory, and he stood nearly upright as hesang, every moment stretching up to look for the invader behind theleaves. The instant she appeared outside, he vanished within, and Ifolded my chair and passed on. His disturber had not caught a glimpse ofhim. 

My next interview with a chat took place a day or two later. Between thecottage which was our temporary home and the next one was a narrowgarden bordered by thick hedges, raspberry bushes down each side, and amass of flowering shrubs next the street. From my seat within the house, a little back from the open window, I was startled by the voice of achat close at hand. Looking cautiously out, I saw him in the garden, foraging about under cover of the bushes, near the ground, and there forsome time I watched him. He had not the slightest repose of manner; themost ill-bred tramp in the English sparrow family was in that respecthis superior, and the most nervous and excitable of wrens could notoutdo him in posturing, jerking himself up, flirting his tail, andhopping from twig to twig. When musically inclined, he perched on theinner side of the bushes against the front fence, a foot or two abovethe ground, and within three feet of any one who might pass, butperfectly hidden. 

The performance of the chat was exceedingly droll; first a whistle, clear as an oriole note, followed by chacks that would deceive ared-wing himself, and then, oddest of all, the laugh of a feeble oldman, a weak sort of "yah! yah! yah!" If I had not seen him in the act, Icould not have believed the sound came from a bird's throat. Heconcluded with a low, almost whispered "chur-r-r, " a sort of privatechuckle over his unique exhibition. After a few minutes' singing hereturned to his foraging on the ground, or over the lowest twigs of thebushes, all the time bubbling over with low joyous notes, his gracefulhead thrown up, and his beautiful golden throat swelling with the happysong. The listener and looker behind the screen was charmed to absolutequiet, and the bird so utterly unsuspicious of observers that he wasperfectly natural and at his ease, hopping quickly from place to place, and apparently snatching his repast between notes. 

The chat's secret of invisibility was thus plainly revealed. It is notin his protective coloring, for though his back is modest of hue, hisbreast is conspicuously showy; nor is it in his size, for he is almostas large as an oriole; it is in his manners. The bird I was watchingnever approached the top of a shrub, but invariably perched a foot ormore below it, and his movements, though quick, were silence itself. Norustle of leaves proclaimed his presence; indeed, he seemed to avoidleaves, using the outside twigs near the main stalk or trunk, where theyare usually quite bare, and no flit of wing or tail gave warning of hischange of position. There was a seemingly natural wariness andcautiousness in every movement and attitude, that I never saw equaled infeathers. 

Then, too, the clever fellow was so constantly on his guard and so alertthat the least stir attracted his attention. Though inside the house, asI said, not near the window, and further veiled by screens, I had toremain as nearly motionless as possible, and use my glass with utmostcaution. The smallest movement sent him into the bushes like a shot, --orrather, like a shadow, for the passage was always noiseless. Suspiciononce aroused, the bird simply disappeared. One could not say of him, asof others, that he flew, for whether he used his wings, or melted away, or sank into the earth, it would be hard to tell. All I can be positiveabout is, that whereas one moment he was there, the next he was gone. 

After this exhibition of the character of the chat, his constantwatchfulness, his distrust, his love of mystery, it may appear strangethat I should try again to study him at home, to find his nest and seehis family. But there is something so bewitching in his individuality, that, though I may be always baffled, I shall never be discouraged. Somewhat later, when it was evident that his spouse had arrived anddomestic life had begun, and I became accustomed to hearing a chat in acertain place every day as I passed, I resolved to make one more effortto win his confidence, or, if not that, at least his tolerance. 

The chat medley for which I was always listening came invariably fromone spot on my pathway up the mountain. It was the lower end of a largehorse pasture, and near the entrance stood a small brick house, in whichno doubt dwelt the owner, or care-taker, of the animals. The wide gate, in a common fashion of that country, opened in the middle, and wasfastened by a link of iron which dropped over the two centre posts. Therattle of the iron as I touched it, on the morning I resolved to go in, brought to the door a woman. She was rather young, with hair cut closeto her head, and wore a dark cotton gown, which was short and scant ofskirt, and covered with a "checked apron. " She was evidently at work, and was probably the mistress, since few in that "working-bee" villagekept maids. 

I made my request to go into the pasture to look at the birds. 

"Why, certainly, " she said, with a courtesy that I have found everywherein Utah, though with a slow surprise growing in her face. "Come rightin. "

I closed and fastened the gate, and started on past her. Three feetbeyond the doorsteps I was brought to a standstill: the ground as far asI could see was water-soaked; it was like a saturated sponge. Utah isdominated by Irrigation; she is a slave to her water supply. One goingthere from the land of rains has much to learn of the possibilities andthe inconveniences of water. I was always stumbling upon it in newcombinations and unaccustomed places, and I never could get used to itsvagaries. Books written in the interest of the Territory indulge inrhapsodies over the fact that every man is his own rain-maker; and Iadmit that the arrangement has its advantages--to the cultivator. Butjudging from the standpoint of an outsider, I should say that man is notan improvement upon the original providence which distributes the staffof life to plants elsewhere, spreading the vital fluid over the wholeland, so evenly that every grass blade gets its due share; and as allparts are wet at once, so all are dry at the same time, and the surplus, if there be any, runs in well-appointed ways, with delight to both eyeand ear. All this is changed when the office of Jupiter Pluvius devolvesupon man; different indeed are his methods. A man turns a stream loosein a field or pasture, and it wanders whither it will over the ground. The grass hides it, and the walker, bird-student or botanist, stepssplash into it without the slightest warning. This is always unpleasant, and is sometimes disastrous, as when one attempts to cross the edge of afield of some close-growing crop, and instantly sinks to the top of theshoes in the soft mud. 

On the morning spoken of, I stopped before the barrier, considering howI should pass it, when the woman showed me a narrow passage between thehouse and the stone wall, through which I could reach the higher groundat the back. I took this path, and in a moment was in the grove of youngoaks which made her out-of-doors kitchen and yard. A fire was burningmerrily in the stove, which stood under a tree; frying-pans andbaking-tins, dippers and dishcloths, hung on the outer wall of herlittle house, and the whole had a camping-out air that was captivating, and possible only in a rainless land. I longed to linger and study thisopen-air housekeeping; if that woman had only been a bird!

But I passed on through the oak-grove back yard, following a path thehorses had made, till I reached an open place where I could overlookthe lower land, filled with clumps of willows with their feet in thewater, and rosebushes

 "O'erburdened with their weight of flowers, And drooping 'neath their own sweet scent. "

A bird was singing as I took my seat, a grosbeak, --perhaps the one whohad entertained me in the field below, while I had waited hour afterhour, for his calm-eyed mate to point out her nest. He sang there fromthe top of a tall tree, and she busied herself in the low bushes, but upto that time they had kept their secret well. He was a beautiful bird, in black and orange-brown and gold, --the black-headed grosbeak; and hissong, besides being very pleasing, was interesting because it seemedhard to get out. It was as if he had conceived a brilliant and beautifulstrain, and found himself unable to execute it. But if he felt theincompleteness of his performance as I did, he did not let it put an endto his endeavor. I sat there listening, and he came nearer, even to alow tree over my head; and as I had a glimpse or two of his mate in atangle of willow and roses far out in the wet land, I concluded he wassinging to her, and not to me. Now that he was so near, I heard morethan I had before, certain low, sweet notes, plainly not intended forthe public ear. This undertone song ended always in "sweet! sweet!sweet!" usually followed by a trill, and was far more effective thanhis state performances. Sometimes, after the "sweet" repeated half adozen times, each note lower than the preceding one, he ended with asort of purr of contentment. 

I became so absorbed in listening that I had almost forgotten the objectof my search, but I was suddenly recalled by a loud voice at one side, and the lively genius of the place was on hand in his usual rôle. Indeed, he rather surpassed himself in mocking and taunting cries thatmorning, either because he wished, as my host, to entertain me, or, whatwas more probable, to reproach me for disturbing the serenity of hislife. Whatever might have been his motive, he delighted me, as always, by the spirit and vigor with which he poured out his chacks and whistlesand rattles and calls. Then I tried to locate him by following up thesound, picking my way through the bushes, and among the straggling armsof the irrigating stream. After some experiments, I discovered that hewas most concerned when I came near an impenetrable tangle that skirtedthe lower end of the lot. I say "near:" it was near "as the crow flies, "but for one without wings it may have been half a mile; for between meand that spot was a great gulf fixed, the rallying point of the mosterratic of wandering streamlets, and so given over to its vagaries thatno bird-gazer, however enthusiastic, and indifferent to wet feet anddraggled garments, dared attempt to pass. There I was forced to pause, while the bird flung out his notes as if in defiance, wilder, louder, and more vehement than ever. 

In that thicket, I said to myself, as I took my way home, behind thattangle, if I can manage to reach it, I shall find the home of the chat. The situation was discouraging, but I was not to be discouraged; toreach that stronghold I was resolved, if I had to dam up the irrigator, build a bridge, or fill up the quagmire. 

No such heroic treatment of the difficulty was demanded; my problem wasvery simply solved. As I entered the gate the next morning, my eyes fellupon an obscure footpath leading away from the house and the watery waybeyond it, down through overhanging wild roses, and under the greattangle in which the chat had hidden. It looked mysterious, not to sayforbidding, and, from the low drooping of the foliage above, it wasplainly a horse path, not a human way. But it was undoubtedly the key tothe secrets of the tangle, and I turned into it without hesitation. Stooping under the branches hanging low with their fragrant burden, andstopping every moment to loosen the hold of some hindering thorn, Ifollowed in the footsteps of my four-footed pioneers till I reached thelower end of the marsh that had kept me from entering on the upper side. On its edge I placed my chair and seated myself. 

It was an ideal retreat; within call if help were needed, yet a solitudeit was plain no human being, in that land where (according to theProphet) every man, woman, and child is a working bee, ever invaded;

 "A leafy nook Where wind never entered, nor branch ever shook, "

known only to my equine friends and to me. I exulted in it! Nodiscoverer of a new land, no stumbler upon a gold mine, was ever moreexhilarated over his find than I over my solitary wild rose path. 

The tangle was composed of a varied growth. There seemed to have beenoriginally a straggling row of low trees, chokecherry, peach, andwillow, which had been surrounded, overwhelmed, and almost buried by arich growth of shoots from their own roots, bound and cemented togetherby the luxuriant wild rose of the West, which grows profusely everywhereit can get a foothold, stealing up around and between the branches, tillit overtops and fairly smothers in blossoms a fair-sized oak or othertree. Besides these were great ferns, or brakes, three or four feethigh, which filled up the edges of the thicket, making it absolutelyimpervious to the eye, as well as to the foot of any straggler. Exceptin the obscure passages the horses kept open, no person could penetratemy jungle. 

I had hardly placed myself, and I had not noted half of these details, when it became evident that my presence disturbed somebody. A chat criedout excitedly, "chack! chack! whe-e-w!" whereupon there followed anangry squawk, so loud and so near that it startled me. I turned quickly, and saw madam herself, all ruffled as if from the nest. She was plainlyas much startled as I was, but she scorned to flee. She perked up hertail till she looked like an exaggerated wren; she humped her shoulders;she turned this way and that, showing in every movement her anger at myintrusion; above all, she repeated at short intervals that squawk, likean enraged hen. Hearing a rustle of wings on the other side, I turned myeyes an instant, and when I looked again she had gone! She would not runwhile I looked at her, but she had the true chat instinct of keeping outof sight. 

She did not desert her grove, however. The canopy over my head, the roofto my retreat, was of green leaves, translucent, almost transparent. Thesun was the sun of Utah; it cast strong shadows, and not a bird couldmove without my seeing it. I could see that she remained on guard, hopping and flying silently from one point of view to another, no doubtkeeping close watch of me all the time. 

Meanwhile the chat himself had not for a moment ceased calling. For sometime his voice would sound quite near; then it would draw off, growingmore and more distant, as if he were tired of watching one who didabsolutely nothing. But he never got far away before madam recalled him, sometimes by the squawk alone, sometimes preceding it by a single clearwhistle, exactly in his own tone. At once, as if this were asignal, --which doubtless it was, --his cries redoubled in energy, andseemed to come nearer again. 

Above the restless demonstrations of the chats I could hear the clear, sweet song of the Western meadow-lark in the next field. Well indeedmight his song be serene; the minstrel of the meadow knew perfectly wellthat his nest and nestlings were as safely hidden in the middle of thegrowing lucern as if in another planet; while the chat, on the contrary, was plainly conscious of the ease with which his homestead might bediscovered. A ruthless destroyer, a nest-robbing boy, would have had thewhole thing in his pocket days ago. Even I, if I had not preferred tohave the owners show it to me: if I had not made excuses to myself, ofthe marsh, of bushes too low to go under; if I had not hated to take itby force, to frighten the little folk I wished to make friendswith, --even I might have seen the nest long before that morning. Thus Imeditated as, after waiting an hour or two, I started for home. 

Outside the gate I met my fellow-student, and we went on together. Ourway lay beside an old orchard that we had often noticed in our walks. The trees were not far apart, and so overgrown that they formed a deepshade, like a heavy forest, which was most attractive when everythingoutside was baking in the June sun. It was nearly noon when we reachedthe gate, and looking into a place

 "So curtained with trunks and boughs That in hours when the ringdove coos to his spouse The sun to its heart scarce a way could win, "

we could not resist its inviting coolness; we went in. 

As soon as we were quiet, we noticed that there were more robins than wehad heretofore seen in one neighborhood in that part of the world; forour familiar bird is by no means plentiful in the Rocky Mountaincountries, where grassy lawns are rare, and his chosen food is notforthcoming. The old apple-trees seemed to be a favorite nesting-place, and before we had been there five minutes we saw that there were atleast two nests within fifty feet of us, and a grosbeak singing hislove song, so near that we had hopes of finding his home, also, in thissecluded nook. 

The alighting of a bird low down on the trunk of a tree, perhaps twentyfeet away, called the attention of my friend to a neighbor we had notcounted upon, a large snake, with, as we noted with horror, the colorand markings of the dreaded rattler. He had, as it seemed, started toclimb one of the leaning trunks, and when he had reached a point wherethe trunk divided into two parts, his head about two feet up, and thelower part of his body still on the ground, had stopped, and now restedthus, motionless as the tree itself. It may be that it was the suddenpresence of his hereditary enemy that held him apparently spellbound, orit is possible that this position served his own purposes better thanany other. Our first impulse was to leave his lordship in undisputedpossession of his shady retreat; but the second thought, which held us, was to see what sort of reception the robins would give him. There was anest full of young on a neighboring tree, and it was the mother who hadcome down to interview the foe. Would she call her mate? Would theneighbors come to the rescue? Should we see a fight, such as we had readof? We decided to wait for the result. 

Strange to say, however, this little mother did not call for help. Notone of the loud, disturbed cries with which robins greet an innocentbird-student or a passing sparrow hawk was heard from her; though herkinsfolk sprinkled the orchard, she uttered not a sound. For a momentshe seemed dazed; she stood motionless, staring at the invader as ifuncertain whether he were alive. Then she appeared to be interested; shecame a little nearer, still gazing into the face of her enemy, whoseerect head and glittering eyes were turned toward her. We could not seethat he made the slightest movement, while she hopped nearer and nearer;sometimes on one division of the trunk, and sometimes on the other, butalways, with every hop, coming a little nearer. She did not actfrightened nor at all anxious; she simply seemed interested, andinclined to close investigation. Was she fascinated? Were the oldstories of snake power over birds true? Our interest was most intense;we did not take our eyes from her; nothing could have dragged us awaythen. 

Suddenly the bird flew to the ground, and, so quickly that we did notsee the movement, the head of the snake was turned over toward her, proving that it was the bird, and not us, he was watching. Still shekept drawing nearer till she was not more than a foot from him, when oursympathy with the unfortunate creature, who apparently was unable totear herself away, overcame our scientific curiosity. "Poor thing, she'll be killed! Let us drive her away!" we cried. We picked up smallstones which we threw toward her; we threatened her with sticks; we"shooed" at her with demonstrations that would have quickly driven awaya robin in possession of its senses. Not a step farther off did shemove; she hopped one side to avoid our missiles, but instantly flutteredback to her doom. Meanwhile her mate appeared upon the scene, hoveringanxiously about in the trees overhead, but not coming near the snake. 

By this time we had lost all interest in the question whether a snakecan charm a bird to its destruction; we thought only of saving thelittle life in such danger. We looked around for help; my friend ranacross the street to a house, hurriedly secured the help of a man with aheavy stick, and in two minutes the snake lay dead on the ground. 

The bird, at once relieved, flew hastily to her nest, showing no signsof mental aberration, or any other effect of the strain she had beenunder. The snake was what the man called a "bull snake, " and so closelyresembled the rattler in color and markings that, although itsexterminator had killed many of the more famous reptiles, he could nottell, until it was stretched out in death, which of the two it was. Thistragedy spoiled the old orchard for me, and never again did I enter itsgates. 

Down the wild rose path I took my way the next morning. Silently andquickly I gained my seat of yesterday, hoping to surprise the chatfamily. No doubt my hope was vain; noiseless, indeed, and deft ofmovement must be the human being who could come upon this alert birdunawares. He greeted me with a new note, a single clear call, like "ho!"Then he proceeded to study me, coming cautiously nearer and nearer, as Icould see out of the corner of my eye, while pretending to be closelyoccupied with my notebook. His loud notes had ceased, but it is not inchat nature to be utterly silent; many low sounds dropped from his beakas he approached. Sometimes it was a squawk, a gentle imitation of thatwhich rang through the air from the mouth of his spouse; again it was ahoarse sort of mewing, followed by various indescribable sounds in thesame undertone; and then he would suddenly take himself in hand, and beperfectly silent for half a minute. 

After a little, madam took up the matter, uttering her angry squawk, andbreaking upon my silence almost like a pistol shot. At once I forgot hermate, and though he retired to a little distance and resumed hisbrilliant musical performance, I did not turn my head at hisbeguilements. She was the business partner of the firm whose movements Iwished to follow. She must, sooner or later, go to her nest, while hemight deceive me for days. Indeed, I strongly suspected him of that verything, and whenever he became bolder in approaching, or louder and morevociferous of tongue, I was convinced that it was to cover heroperations. I redoubled my vigilance in watching for her, keeping myeyes open for any slight stirring of a twig, tremble of a leaf, or quickshadow near the ground that should point her out as she skulked to hernest. I had already observed that whenever she uttered her squawks heinstantly burst into energetic shouts and calls. I believed it aconcerted action, with the intent of drawing my attention from hermovements. 

On this day the disturbed little mother herself interviewed me. Firstshe came silently under the green canopy, in plain sight, stood a momentbefore me, jerking up her beautiful long tail and letting it drop slowlyback, and posing her mobile body in different positions; then suddenlyflying close past me, she alighted on one side, and stared at me forhalf a dozen seconds. Then, evidently, she resolved to take me in hand. She assumed the rôle of deceiver, with all the wariness of her family;her object being, as I suppose, carefully to point out where her nestwas _not_. She circled about me, taking no pains to avoid my gaze. Nowshe squawked on the right; then she acted "the anxious mother" on theleft; this time it was from the clump of rosebushes in front that sherose hurriedly, as if that was her home; again it was from over my head, in the chokecherry-tree, that she bustled off, as if she had been"caught in the act. " It was a brilliant, a wonderful performance, athousand times more effective than trailing or any of the similardevices by which an uneasy bird mother draws attention from her brood. It was so well done that at each separate manœuvre I could hardly beconvinced by my own eyes that the particular spot indicated did notconceal the little homestead I was seeking. Several times I rosetriumphant, feeling sure that "now indeed I _do_ know where it is, " andproceeded at once to the bush she had pointed out with so much simulatedreluctance, parted the branches, and looked in, only to find myselfdeceived again. Her acting was marvelous. With just the properlyanxious, uneasy manner, she would steal behind a clump of leaves intosome retired spot admirably adapted for a chat's nest, and after amoment sneak out at the other side, and fly away near the ground, exactly as all bird-students have seen bird mothers do a thousandtimes. 

After this performance a silence fell upon the tangle and the solitarynook in which I sat, --and I meditated. It was the last day of my stay. Should I set up a search for that nest which I was sure was withinreach? I could go over the whole in half an hour, examine every shruband low tree and inch of ground in it, and doubtless I should find it. No; I do not care for a nest thus forced. The distress of parents, thepanic of nestlings, give me no pleasure. I know how a chat's nest looks. I have seen one with its pinky-pearl eggs; why should I care to seeanother? I know how young birds look; I have seen dozens of them thisvery summer. Far better that I never lay eyes upon the nest than to doit at such cost. 

As I reached this conclusion, into the midst of my silence came thesteady tramp of a horse. I knew the wild rose path was a favoriteretreat from the sun, and it was very hot. The path was narrow; if ahorse came in upon me, he could not turn round and retreat, nor wasthere room for him to pass me. Realizing all this in an instant, Isnatched up my belongings, and hurried to get out before he should getin. 

When I emerged, the chat set up his loudest and most triumphant shouts. "Again we have fooled you, " he seemed to say; "again we have thrownyour poor human acuteness off the scent! We shall manage to bring up ourbabies in safety, in spite of you!"

So indeed they might, even if I had seen them; but this, alas, I couldnot make him understand. So he treated me--his best friend--exactly ashe treated the nest-robber and the bird-shooter. 

I shall never know whether that nest contained eggs or young birds; orwhether perchance there was no nest at all, and I had been deceived fromthe first by the most artful and beguiling of birds. And through allthis I had never once squarely seen the chat I had been following. 

 "Even yet thou art to me No bird, but, an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery. "

XX. 

ON THE LAWN. 

The first thing that strikes an Eastern bird-student in the RockyMountain region, as I have already said, is the absence of the birds heis familiar with. Instead of the chipping sparrow everywhere, one seesthe lazuli-painted finch, or the Rocky Mountain bluebird; in place ofthe American robin's song, most common of sounds in countryneighborhoods on the Atlantic side of the continent, is heard the silverbell of the towhee bunting, sometimes called marsh robin, or the harsh"chack" of Brewer's blackbird; the music that opens sleepy eyes atdaybreak is not a chorus of robins and song-sparrows, but the ringingnotes of the chewink, the clear-cut song of the Western meadow-lark, orthe labored utterance of the black-headed grosbeak; it is not by themelancholy refrain of the whippoorwill or the heavenly hymns of thrushesthat the approach of night is heralded, but by the cheery trill of thehouse wren or the dismal wail of the Western wood-pewee. 

Most of all does the bird-lover miss the thrushes from the featheredorchestra. Some of them may dwell in that part of the world, --the booksaffirm it, and I cannot deny it, --but this I know: one whose eye isuntiring, and whose ear is open night and day to bird-notes, may spendMay, June, July, yes, and even August, in the haunts of Rocky Mountainbirds, and not once see or hear either of our choice singing thrushes. 

However the student may miss the birds he knows at home, he must rejoicein the absence of one, --the English sparrow. When one sees the charmingpurple finch and summer yellow-bird, nesting and singing in the streetsof Denver, and the bewitching Arkansas goldfinch and the beautifulWestern bluebird perfectly at home in Colorado Springs, he is remindedof what might be in the Eastern cities, if only the human race had notinterfered with Nature's distribution of her feathered families. InUtah, indeed, we meet again the foreigner, for in that unfortunateTerritory the man, wise in his own conceit, was found to introduce him, and Salt Lake, the city of their pride and glory, is as completelyinfested by the feathered tramp as New York itself. Happy is Coloradothat great deserts form her borders, and that chains of mountainsseparate her from her neighbors; for, since the sparrow is as fond ofthe city as Dr. Johnson, it may be hoped that neither he, nor hischildren, nor his grandchildren, will ever cross the barriers. 

In Utah, as everywhere, the English sparrows are sharp-witted rogues, and they have discovered and taken possession of the most comfortableplace for bird quarters to be found, for protection from the terribleheat of summer, and the wind and snow of winter; it is between the roofand the stone or adobe walls of the houses. Wherever the inequalities ofthe stones or the shrinkage of the wood has left an opening, and madepenetration possible, there an English sparrow has established apermanent abode. 

The first bird I noticed in the quiet Mormon village where I settledmyself to study was a little beauty in blue. I knew him instantly, for Ihad met him before in Colorado. He was dining luxuriously on thefeathery seeds of a dandelion when I discovered him, and at no greatdistance was his olive-clad mate, similarly engaged. They wereconversing cheerfully in low tones, and in a few minutes I suppose hecalled her attention to the superior quality of his dandelion; for shecame to his side, and he at once flew to a neighboring bush and burstinto song. It was a pretty little ditty, or rather a musical rattle onone note, resembling the song of the indigo bird, his near relative. 

The lazuli-painted finch should be called the blue-headed finch, for theexquisite blueness of his whole head, including throat, breast, andshoulders, as if he had been dipped so far into blue dye, is hisdistinguishing feature. The bluebird wears heaven's color; so does thejay, and likewise the indigo bird; but not one can boast the lovely andindescribable shade, with its silvery reflections, that adorns thelazuli. Across the breast, under the blue, is a broad band of chestnut, like the breast color of our bluebird, and back of that is white, whilethe wings and tail are dark. Altogether, he is charming to look upon. Who would not prefer him about the yard to the squawking house sparrow, or even the squabbling chippy?

My catching the pair at dinner was not an accident; I soon found outthat they lived there, and had settled upon a row of tall raspberrybushes that separated the garden from the lawn for their summer home. Madam was already at work collecting her building materials, and verysoon the fragile walls of her pretty nest were formed in an uprightcrotch of the raspberries, about a foot below the top. 

Naturally, I was greatly interested in the fairy house building, andoften inspected the work while the little dame was out of sight. Oneday, however, as I was about to part the branches to look in, I heardan anxious "phit, " and glanced up to see the owner alight on the lowestlimb of a peach-tree near by. Of course I turned away at once, pretending that I was just passing, and had no suspicion of her precioussecret in the raspberries, and hoping that she would not mind. But shedid mind, very seriously; she continued to stand on that branch with anaggrieved air, as if life were no longer worth living, now that her homewas perhaps discovered. Without uttering a sound or moving a muscle, sofar as I could see, she remained for half an hour before she accepted mytaking a distant seat and turning my attention to dragonflies as anapology, and ventured to visit her nest again. After that I made verysure that she was engaged elsewhere before I paid my daily call. 

The dragonflies, by the way, were well worth looking at; indeed, theydivided my interest with the birds. So many and such variety I nevernoticed elsewhere, and they acted exactly like fly-catching birds, staying an hour at a time on one perch, from which every now and thenthey sallied out, sweeping the air and returning to the perch they hadleft. Sometimes I saw four or five of them at once, resting on differentdead twigs in the yard the other side of the lawn, and I have even seenone knock a fellow-dragonfly off a favorite perch and take it himself. 

They were very beautiful, too: some with wings of transparent white orlight amber barred off by wide patches of rich dark brown or black;others, again, smaller, and all over blue as the lazuli's head; and athird of brilliant silver, which sparkled as it flew, as if covered withspangles. One alighted there with wings which seemed to be covered witha close and intricate design in the most brilliant gold thread. I wentalmost near enough to put my hand on him, and I never saw a moregorgeous creature; beside his beautiful wings his back was of old gold, coming down in scallops over the black and dark blue under part. 

In due time four lovely blue eggs filled the nest of the lazuli, andabout the middle of June madam began to sit, and I had to be morecareful than ever in timing my visits. 

Some birds approach their nest in a loitering, aimless sort of way, asif they had no particular business, in that quarter, and, if they seeany cause for alarm, depart with an indifferent air that reveals nothingof their secret. Not thus the ingenuous lazuli. She showed her anxietyevery moment; coming in the most businesslike way, and proclaiming hererrand to the most careless observer, till I thought every boy on thestreet would know where her eggs were to be found. She had a very prettyway of going to the nest; indeed, all her manners were winning. Shealways alighted on the peach-tree branch, looked about on all sides, especially at me in my seat on the piazza, flirted her tail, uttered ananxious "phit, " and then jumped off the limb and dived under the bushesnear the ground. It is to be presumed that she ascended to her nestbehind the leaves by hopping from twig to twig, though this I couldnever manage to see. 

And what of her gay little spouse all this time? Did he spend his dayscheering her with music, as all the fathers of feathered families arefabled to do? Indeed he did not, and until I watched very closely, andsaw him going about over the poplars in silence, I thought he had leftthe neighborhood. Once in the day he had a good singing time, about fiveo'clock in the morning, two hours before the sun rose over themountains. If one happened to be awake then, he would hear the mostrapturous song, delivered at the top of his voice, and continuing for along time. But as it grew lighter, and the human world began to stir, hebecame quiet again, and, if he sang at all, he went so far from homethat I did not hear him. 

But the wise little blue-head had not deserted; he was merely cautious. Every time that the little sitter went off for food she met himsomewhere, and he came back with her. Occasionally he took a peep at thetreasures himself, but he never entered by her roundabout way. He alwaysflew directly in from above. 

Ten days passed away in this quiet manner, my attention divided betweenthe birds, the dragonflies, and the clacking grasshopper, who wentjerking himself about with a noise like a subdued lawn-mower, giving onethe impression that his machinery was out of order. 

The tenth day of sitting we had a south wind. That does not seem veryterrible, but a south wind on the shore of the Great Salt Lake issomething to be dreaded. 

 "A wind that is dizzy with whirling play, A dozen winds that have lost their way. "

It starts up suddenly, and comes with such force as to snap off theleaves of trees, and even the tender twigs of shrubs. As it waxespowerful it bends great trees, and tries the strength of roofs andchimneys. From the first breath it rolls up tremendous clouds of dust, that come and come, and never cease, long after it seems as if everyparticle in that rainless land must have been driven by. It is in the"Great Basin, " and the south wind is the broom that sweeps it clean. Notonly dust does the south wind bring, but heat, terrible andsuffocating, like that of a fiery furnace. Before it the human and thevegetable worlds shrink and wither, and birds and beasts are littleseen. 

Such a day was the birthday in the little nest in the raspberries, andon my usual morning call I found four featherless birdlings, with beaksalready yawning for food. Every morning, of course, I looked at thebabies, but it was not till the eighth day of their life that I foundtheir eyes open. Before this they opened their mouths when I jarred thenest in parting the branches, thus showing they were not asleep, but didnot open their eyes, and I was forced to conclude that they were not yetunclosed. 

Sometimes the daily visit was made under difficulties, and I wasunpleasantly surprised when I stepped upon the grass of the little lawnthat I was obliged to cross. The grass looked as usual; the eveningbefore we had been sitting upon it. But all night a stream had beensilently spreading itself upon it, and my hasty step was into water twoor three inches deep, which swished up in a small fountain and filled alow shoe in an instant. 

This is one of the idiosyncrasies of irrigation, which it seemed Ishould never get accustomed to, and several times I was obliged to turnback for overshoes before I could pay my usual call. A lawn asoak is acurious sight, and always reminds me of Lanier's verses, "A thousand rivulets run 'Twixt the roots of the soil; the blades of the marsh grass stir; ... And the currents cease to run, And the sea and the marsh are one. "

The morning the lazulis were ten days old, before I came out of thehouse, that happened which so often puts an end to a study of birdlife, --the nest was torn out of place and destroyed, and the littlefamily had disappeared. The particulars will never be known. Whether anest-robbing boy or a hungry cat was the transgressor, and whether thenestlings were carried off or eaten, or had happily escaped, who cantell? I could only judge by the conduct of the birds themselves, and asthey did not appear disturbed, and continued to carry food, it is to bepresumed that part, if not all, of the brood was saved from the wreck oftheir home. 

Happily, to console me in my sorrow for this catastrophe, the lazuli wasnot the only bird to be seen on the lawn, though his was the only nest. I had for some time been greatly interested in the daily visits of ahumming-bird, a little dame in green and white, who had taken possessionof a honeysuckle vine beside the door, claiming the whole as her own, and driving away, with squeaky but fierce cries, any other of her racewho ventured to sip from the coral cups so profusely offered. 

The season for humming-birds opened with the locust blossoms next door, which were for days a mass of blooms and buzzings, of birds and bees. But when the fragrant flowers began to fall and the ground was whitewith them, one bird settled herself on our honeysuckle, and there tookher daily meals for a month. Being not six feet from where I sat forhours every day, I had the first good opportunity of my life to learnthe ways of one of these queer little creatures in feathers. 

After long searching and much overhauling of the books, I made her outto be the female broad-tailed humming-bird, who is somewhat larger thanthe familiar ruby-throat of the East. Her mate, if she had one, nevercame to the vine; but whether she drove him away and discouraged him, orwhether he had an independent source of supply, I never knew. She wasthe only one whose acquaintance I made, and in a month's watching I cameto know her pretty well. 

In one way she differed strikingly from any humming-bird I have seen:she alighted, and rested frequently and for long periods. Droll enoughit looked to see such an atom, such a mere pinch of feathers, conductherself after the fashion of a big bird; to see her wipe thatneedle-like beak, and dress those infinitesimal feathers, combing outher head plumage with her minute black claws, running the same usefulappendages through her long, gauzy-looking wings, and carefully removingthe yellow pollen of the honeysuckle blooms which stuck to her face andthroat. Her favorite perch was a tiny dead twig on the lowest branch ofa poplar-tree, near the honeysuckle. There she spent a long time eachday, sitting usually, though sometimes she stood on her little wirylegs. 

But though my humming friend might sit down, there was no repose abouther; she was continually in motion. Her head turned from side to side, as regularly, and apparently as mechanically, as an elephant weaves hisgreat head and trunk. Sometimes she turned her attention to me, andleaned far over, with her large, dark eyes fixed upon me with interestor curiosity. But never was there the least fear in her bearing; sheevidently considered herself mistress of the place, and reproved me if Imade the slightest movement, or spoke too much to a neighbor. If shehappened to be engaged among her honey-pots when a movement was made, she instantly jerked herself back a foot or more from the vine, andstood upon nothing, as it were, motionless, except the wings, while shelooked into the cause of the disturbance, and often expressed herdisapproval of our behavior in squeaky cries. 

The toilet of this lilliputian in feathers, performed on her chosen twigas it often was, interested me greatly. As carefully as though she werea foot or two, instead of an inch or two long, did she clean and put inorder every plume on her little body, and the work of polishing her beakwas the great performance of the day. This member was plainly her prideand her joy; every part of it, down to the very tip, was scraped andrubbed by her claws, with the leg thrown over the wing, exactly as bigbirds do. It was astonishing to see what she could do with her leg. Ihave even seen her pause in mid-air and thrust one over her vibratingwing to scratch her head. 

Then when the pretty creature was all in beautiful order, heremerald-green back and white breast immaculate, when she had shakenherself out, and darted out and drawn back many times her longbristle-like tongue, she would sometimes hover along before the tips ofthe fence-stakes, which were like laths, held an inch apart bywires, --collecting, I suppose, the tiny spiders which were to be foundthere. She always returned to the honeysuckle, however, to finish herrepast, opening and closing her tail as one flirts a fan, while thebreeze made by her wings agitated the leaves for two feet around her. Should a blossom just ready to fall come off on her beak like a coralcase, as it sometimes did, she was indignant indeed; she jerked herselfback and flung it off with an air that was comical to see. 

When the hot wind blew, the little creature seemed to feel thediscomfort that bigger ones did: she sat with open beak as thoughpanting for breath; she flew around with legs hanging, and even alightedon a convenient leaf or cluster of flowers, while she rifled a blossom, standing with sturdy little legs far apart, while stretching up to reachthe bloom she desired. 

Two statements of the books were not true in the case of this bird: shedid not sit on a twig upright like an owl or a hawk, but held her bodyexactly as does a robin or sparrow; and she did fly backward andsideways, as well as forward. 

Toward the end of June my tiny visitor began to make longer intervalsbetween her calls, and when she did appear she was always in too greathaste to stop; she passed rapidly over half a dozen blossoms, and thenflitted away. Past were the days of loitering about on poplar twigs orpreening herself on the peach-tree. It was plain that she had set up ahome for herself, and the mussy state of her once nicely kept breastfeathers told the tale, --she had a nest somewhere. Vainly, however, didI try to track her home: she either took her way like an arrow acrossthe garden to a row of very tall locusts, where a hundred humming-birds'nests might have been hidden, or turned the other way over a neighbor'sfield to a cluster of thickly grown apple-trees, equally impossible tosearch. If she had always gone one way I might have tried to follow, butto look for her infinitesimal nest at opposite poles of the earth wastoo discouraging, even if the weather had been cool enough for suchexertion. 

When at last I could endure the wind and the dust and the heat nolonger, and stood one morning on the porch, waiting for the mostdeliberate of drivers with his carriage to drive me to the station, thatI might leave Utah altogether, the humming-bird appeared on the scene, took a sip or two out of her red cups, flirted her feathers saucily inmy very face, then darted over the top of the cottage and disappeared;and that was the very last glimpse I had of the little dame in green. 

INDEX. 

 Acadian flycatcher, 161. 

 Arkansas goldfinch, 23. 

 At four o'clock in the morning, 95. 

 Barbed wire fence, 157. 

 Behind the tangle, 246. 

 Birds: and poets, 194. A strange song, 73. Different ways, 264. Hard to study, 20. In Colorado, 18. In Colorado Springs, 260. In Denver, 260. In the "Wrens' Court, " 161, 166, 168. Leave nesting place, 154. Morning chorus, 21, 22, 105. Music in Colorado, 32. Not on exhibition, 19. Not sing alike, 34. Panic among, 39. Unfamiliar, 23, 259. Utah, 260. 

 Black-headed grosbeak, 244, 251. Song of, 244. 

 Blue jay, 126. And doll, 103. And red-headed woodpecker, 104. Apple-tree nest, 151. A struggle, 149. Attentive to mate, 127. Bad name, 147. Devoted mother, 127. Eating, 144. Getting over the ground, 145. Home deserted, 140. Interview with, 146. Joke or war-cry? 134. Manners, 130, 132, 144. My search for nest, 126. No pretense, 130. Pine-tree nest, 126. Vocabulary, 133. When babies are noisy, 131. With a stranger, 148. With catbirds, 150. 

 Blue jay, the young: accident to, 140. Beauty of, 143. Climber, 141. First outing, 138. Imperfect, 152. Intelligence in house, 152. On edge of nest, 137. Returned to parents, 153. 

 Bobolink song, 120. 

 Burro an investigator, 89. 

 Camp Harding, 9. 

 Camping in Colorado, 3. 

 Cañon wren, the, 74. Manners, 86, 87. Song, 74. 

 Cardinal grosbeak, 107. Abandoning the nest, 120. As a father, 113. Confidence in people, 121. Delight of parents, 123. Eating corn, 109, 115. Importance of the builder, 119. Kindness to young, 117. Manners, 107. Nest, 122. On grass, 105, 107. Politeness to mate, 116. Reception of woodpecker, 108. Rose trellis nest, 121. Speeding the parting guest, 125. Victim of English sparrow, 114. 

 Cardinal, the young, 113. Characteristics, 114. First baby out, 122. Food of, 123. Song of, 116. Training, 116. With sparrows, 114, 115. 

 Carolina wren, the great: babies appear, 172. Ceremony of approaching, 177. Father disturbed, 175. First sight of, 159. Fighting a chipmunk, 178. Hard to see, 177. Interruption to study, 168. Manners, 163, 173, 175. Mother anxious, 176. Nest, 149, 182. Song, 162, 164. Trailing, 162. "Wrens' Court, " 160. 

 Carolina wren, the young: cries of, 181. Delay in taking flight, 179. Development of, 174. First sallies, 180, 181. Manners, 178. 

 Catbird song, 23. 

 Cat on lawn, 112. 

 Cedar-tree little folk, 194. 

 Charming nook, a, 124. 

 Chat, long-tailed, yellow-breasted, 40, 232. Alertness of, 240. Bewitching, 241. Comes in sight, 237. Eccentric, 232. Egg stolen, 50. Farewell, 51. First sight of, 45. Hard to study, 47. Haunts of, 241. Home of, 246. Humor, 40. Manners, 44, 46, 238, 239, 240. Nest, 47, 48. On hand, 245. Saucy, 41. Secret of invisibility, 239. Studies me, 254, triumphant, 257. Voice, 40, 43, 45, 236, 237, 239. 

 Chat, the madam: interviews me, 255. Keeps her mate up to duty, 249. Manners, 248. Squawks, 254. Wonderful acting, 256. 

 Chewink, or towhee bunting: babies, 31. Green-tailed towhee, 210. Husky cry, 30. Manners, 28, 29. Nest, 30. Song, 29. 

 Cheyenne Cañon, 15. Solitary possession of, 75. 

 Cheyenne Mountain, 43. 

 Chipmunk, 78. 

 Cinderella among the flowers, a, 60. 

 Cliff-dwellers in the cañon, 70. 

 Colorado, a restful way to see, 13. The wonderland, 14. 

 Cotton storm, a, 17. 

 Cottonwoods, in the, 17. 

 Cuckoo, 157, 231. 

 Doll as a bogy, 103. 

 Dragonflies in Utah, 263. 

 English or house sparrow: as a climber, 110. Autocrat, 129. In Utah, 261. Robbing blackbirds, 100. Robbing red-headed woodpecker, 110. 

 Feast of flowers, the, 52. 

 Flicker a character, 106. 

 Flowers: abundance of bloom, 54. Anemone, 61. Cactus, 56, 62, 74. Castilleia, 67. Cleome, 67. Columbine, 58, 67. Cyclamen, 67. Extermination by cattle, 208. Extermination by tourists, 68. Geranium, 58. Gilia, 64. Golden prince's feather, 65. Gummy and clinging stems, 66. Harebells, 67. In a niche, 73. In Kansas, 52. Mariposa lily, 65. Mentzelia, 60. Mertensia, 67. Mexican poppy, 62. Milky juice, 66. Moccasin plant, 54, 75. Nasturtium, self-willed, 149. Ox-eye daisy, 66. Painter of, 68. Paradise of, 53. Pentstemon, 58. Pink stranger, 62. Primrose, 58, 67. Roses, 58, 63, 75. Spiderwort, 52. Symphony in green, 55. Varieties, 53, 57. Vetches, 67. Wild garden, 57. Wild mignonette, 62. Yellow daisies, 52. Yucca, 55, 62. 

 Gates, idiosyncrasies of, 220. 

 Getting up in the morning, 95. 

 Glen, a beautiful, 155. Frightened out of, 169. 

 Grasshopper, a clacking, 266. 

 Grave of "H. H. , " 90, 91. 

 Great-crested flycatcher, 167. 

 Gull, the herring, 211. Following the plow, 213. Flight, 215. Manners, 213. Nesting, 216. Nooning, 215. Penalty for killing, 212. Sent to the "Chosen People, " 212. Value of, 216. 

 Horned lark: horns, 36. Nest, 36. Song, 35. 

 Horse, a scared, and result, 228. Drive me away, 257. 

 House wren, the Western, 24. Babies, 27, 28. Disturbed, 27. Manners, 24. Nest, 25. Song, 27. Strange cry, 25. 

 Humming-bird: collecting spiders, 271. Different from the Eastern, 38. Dislike of heat, 272. In cañon, 76. Last glimpse, 273. Manners, 269. Nesting, 272. Noisy, 38. Precious beak, 271. Scolding, 42. Surveillance, 40. The broad-tailed, 268. Toilet of, 271. 

 Ideal retreat, an, 247. 

 In a pasture, 207. 

 In the Middle Country, 93. 

 In the Rocky Mountains, 1. 

 Irrigation vagaries, 242, 245, 267. 

 Kansas, 7. 

 Kitchen, an al fresco, 243. 

 Kitten, a lost, 39. 

 Lazuli-painted finch, 261. Anxiety of mother, 263. Babies, 267. Manners, 262, 265. Nest, 262. Nest destroyed, 268. 

 Magpie: discover us, 225. Manners, 216, 219, 224. Nest, 223. Nursery, 230. Reception to us, 227. Search for nest, 216. Song, 224. 

 Meadow-lark, the Western, 249. Cry, 120. Song, 24, 32, 34. 

 Morning tramp, a, 156. 

 Mosquito, absence of, 20. A lonely, 21. 

 Mourning dove, 103. Headquarters, 199. Joke of, 200. Manners, 196, 198, 199. Nest, 198. Silence of, 201, 204. Song, 195, 204. Talk, 204. Wing whistle, 204. Young, interview with, 201. Young, manners of, 197, 201. 

 Oak-brush, the, 222. 

 On the lawn, 259. 

 Orchard, an old, 250. 

 Orchard oriole: a later view, 191. Anxiety of parents, 185. Baby cries, 186. Babies' first flight, 189, 190. Call from a Baltimore, 188. Called by nestlings, 184. Manners, 186, 190. Nest, 184, 192. Song of female, 191. Song of male, 192. 

 Park, a deserted, 42. 

 Pewee, Western wood, 22. Nest, 38. Song, 22, 37. Voice, 37. 

 Purple grackle, the, 96. Discouraging them, 104. Eating, 100. Greeting to me, 97. Husky tones, 98. Humor, 99. No repose of manner, 101. Plumage, 99. Robbed by sparrows, 100. Strange utterances, 98. Treatment of young, 101. Young, 98, 101, 102. Young, persistence of, 102. 

 Red-headed woodpecker: autocrat, 106. Eating corn, 109. Protecting the place, 110. Treatment of cardinal grosbeak, 108. Treatment of doll, 104. 

 Rest, to find, 3, 4, 5, 6, 11. 

 Robin, absence of, 28. And corn, 103. And doll, 103. Not plentiful, 250. Reception of snake, 250. 

 Rocky Mountains: a pasture on, 207. Cheyenne range, 235. Wasatch range, 233, 234. 

 Sage-bush, 233. 

 Sage the delight of my friend, 234. 

 Salt Lake, view of, 218. 

 Secret of the Wild Rose Path, 231. 

 Seven Sisters' Falls, 72. 

 Sight-seeing travelers, 12. 

 South wind, 266. 

 Strange character of feathered world, 128. 

 Strangers not allowed, 129. 

 Study of birds, my way, 226. 

 Study of birds, two ways, 236. 

 Tents to live in, 11. 

 Thrushes absent, 260. 

 Tourist, 89, 91. 

 Tourist, the unscrupulous, 68. 

 Towhee (see Chewink). 

 Tragedy of a nest, 42. 

 Uproar of song, an, 32. 

 Vagaries of name-givers, 160. 

 View, a beautiful, 136. 

 Walks from the camp, 70. The evening, 70. The morning, 72. Up to the cañon, 72. 

 Water ouzel, or American dipper: baby, 80, 85. Cry, 79. "dipping, " 80. Feats in the water, 83. Manners, 80, 81. Nest, 77. Song, 79, 81. The mother, 82. 

 Wood-thrush nest, 168. 

 Yellow warbler: nest, 36, 37. Song, 23, 36. 

 +----------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 72 standstone changed to sandstone | | Page 153 Word "to" added before "one side" | | Page 250 cooes changed to coos | | Page 277 " added to "Wrens' Court, | +----------------------------------------------+