The Kankakee River country is a catbird and thrasher paradise. We saw more 

 catbirds during that May outing than we did robins. The region affords the 

 catbirds ideal nesting-places, and judging solely from numbers I should say 

 that it will be many generations before their race is run. A swamp extending 

 back from the river encroaches upon the pasture-land. We had not left the 

 singing thrush far behind before we started a green heron from its swamp 

 retreat. A lesser blue heron took flight a moment later. It is a much rarer bird 

 than its green brother. As we were about to retrace our steps a great blue 

 heron ceased its frog-hunting and flapped away leisurely over the trees. On 

 the way back to the house and to breakfast, we crossed a foot-bridge. A male 

 phcebe was sitting on a post near at hand. Out of curiosity I threw myself 

 prone on the wet sod at the side of the path and peered under the bridge. I 

 thought I should find something there, and I did find enough to pay me for 

 damp clothes and a strained neck. A phoebe's nest of perfect architecture was 

 fastened to one of the beams of the bridge, with the mother bird holding faith- 

 fully by her charge even in the face of the intruder. Father Phoebe from his 

 fence-post perch did not seem at all put out at the encroachment on his door- 

 yard. While the inspection of the nest was going on he unconcernedly flew out, 

 snapped up a fugitive fly, and then went back to his post. After each of us 

 had taken a peep at the mossy structure under the bridge we bothered the 

 brave little mother no more. Within twenty-five yards there was another foot- 

 bridge, and on a cross-beam beneath another pair of phoebes had a nest half 

 completed. 



When the Kankakee overflows its banks and makes a broad lake of a part 

 of the country and a marsh-land of the rest, the Indiana region is a favorite 

 resort for gunners. Some of the water birds linger late into the spring, many 

 of them staying weeks after the time that the law first gives them protection 

 from persecution. Some of the pools in the meadows do not dry up until June, 

 and there the hunter who carries an opera-glass instead of a shotgun has a 

 fleeting chance to scrape acquaintance with strangers. We started out after 

 breakfast to seek the marshes. The way to them was along a road which ran 

 parallel to the river and through a wood that was musical with the voices of 

 birds. The orioles of the Kankakee were a revelation to me. They were there 

 in great numbers, and were found not only in the trees near the dwellings of 

 men, but in the depths of the woods. I never knew until that May morning 

 that an oriole could scream. We had crossed the long bridge spanning the 

 river and entered on the road through the woods, when from above our heads 

 came a scream of terror. It was almost humanlike in its agony of fear. Look- 

 ing up we saw an oriole pursued by a hawk. It was the oriole that was doing 

 the screaming. I took the hawk to be the broadwing, though the identification 

 was not certain. Its flight was lumbering and heavy, but it seemed to be 

 gaining on its quarry, which was straining every feather to escape. We 



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