homestead. I bird I think soon gained heart, for as we reached the road we 

 saw her carrying food to the young. Eight days from the afternoon that the 

 young were hatched they were out of the nest. Their growth it struck me was 

 unprecedentedly rapid. 



I found the lark sparrows breeding in the same pasture the following year, 

 and it was not until then that I heard the male's full song. On this occasion 

 my companion was a musician, and one acquainted with the whole range of bird 

 notes. She pronounced the song to be superior in quality to that of any other 

 of the sparrow tribe. There was a treat that spring afternoon for eye and ear. 

 There was a blending of color and song which it does not often fall to man's 

 lot to enjoy. In the heart of a small tree, as yet destitute of foliage, sat a 

 flaming scarlet tanager, while forming a frame about him were seven gorgeous 

 goldfinches. Below the tree the lark sparrow sang its sweet solo. 



I have found the American bittern along the Skokie stretches during the 

 nesting-season. That the bird rears its young there I have no doubt. The race 

 of the bittern in some places, I fear, is nearly run. The jacksnipe shooters who 

 plod the marshes in the late spring shoot down ruthlessly every bittern that rises 

 lazily in front of them. The bird is harmless and adds something of life to the 

 landscape, but it must needs fall victim to that love of killing simply for killing's 

 sake which seems to dwell in the hearts of many so-called sportsmen. 



One spring morning I saw a bittern pitch in the swamp grasses where a 

 bit of the woodland had encroached upon the marsh. I marked the spot where 

 the bird had lighted and walking toward it flushed it from its retreat. It flapped 

 its way lazily over the marsh to a pasture which was dotted with stumps. There 

 was absolutely no cover there for the bird. I went to the place and searched 

 the ground thoroughly through a pair of strong glasses, but never a feather did 

 I see. I knew that I could not have failed to see the bittern had it flown away, 

 for barring the stumps, the place was as open as a lawn. Finally a small stump 

 came into the field of my glass. Stump? No; it was not a stump at all, but 

 the bittern itself posing as a bit of dead wood to deceive the intruder. The bird 

 was not more than fifteen yards away. Its body was perpendicular, its neck 

 and head were drawn well down into the shoulders, and the beak was pointing 

 upward, forming a prolongation of the line of the back. The bird in appear- 

 ance was the counterpart of every one of a dozen of the smaller stumps within 

 a stone's toss of where I stood. I sat down for the sole purpose of testing the 

 bittern's patience. I watched it steadily for twenty minutes, and during all that 

 time it moved not so much as a muscle. It seemed, moreover, as if it had con- 

 trol of its feathers, for the passing breeze which stirred the swamp grass beyond 

 failed to ruffle its plumage. Finally I became half ashamed of keeping the bird 

 under such a strain, and rising, I walked toward it slowly. I was allowed to 

 come within a few feet before it moved. Then, after taking four comically 

 dignified steps, the bittern flew far down the stream which makes its way through 

 the heart of the swamp-land. 



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