•55 



THE OOLUGIST. 



a stake and often mistaken for such. 

 The American Bittern leaves for the 

 south about the first of September. 

 Dana C. Gillett, 

 Barre Centre, N. Y. 



The Feathered Choir. 



In a beautiful rural landscape it is the 

 birds that give life and vigor to the 

 scene; and when the passing breeze 

 brings sweet sounds of harmony to the 

 ear, it comes from those lovely feath- 

 ered choiristei-s who give animation 

 and beauty to uatnre. 



The Mockingbird is unquestionably 

 the prince and leader of the feathered 

 choir, and for his power of imitation, 

 compass of voice, and brilliancy of exe- 

 cution, has no compeer among all his 

 tribe. 



I have heard him imitate the voice of 

 inany animals, as well as the sounds of 

 instruments and other artificial noises. 

 He is not, however, a mere mimic; he 

 possesses an original talent, and sings, 

 with boldness, richness, grace, and var- 

 iety. 



The song of the Cuckoo is well 

 known, consisting of a clear, echoing 

 repetition of two notes which closely 

 resemble the syllables kook-koo, whence 

 the bird's name. When heard at a 

 short distance, on a still summer even- 

 ing, its effect is not unpleasing, and it 

 harmonizes, with the spirit of the scene. 



The Wood or Song Thrush is a 

 charming songster, frequenting the 

 the most lonely and secluded portions 

 of our forests. They are never seen 

 but in pairs or singly, and oftener 

 heard than seen. The male is generally 

 discovered on the top of some high tree 

 in the morning, or towards the evening 

 where he pours forth his few, but very 

 sweet notes, making the woods echo 

 with his melody. 



But of all the birds of our groves and 

 meadows, the Bobolink was the envy of 

 my boyhood. He crossed ray path in 

 t he sweetest weather, and the sweetest 



season of the-year. But I, luckless ur- 

 chin, was doomed to be mewed up 

 during the livelong day, in that purga- 

 tory of boyhood, a schoolroom. It 

 seemed as if the little varlet mocked at 

 me, as he flew by in full song, and 

 sought to taunt me with his happier lot. 

 Oh how I envied him, no lessons, no 

 task, no hateful school, nothing but 

 holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine 

 weather. Had I been then more versed 

 in poetry, I might have addressed mj'^ 

 school ciiums, in the following words: 



List, O list to the Rice Bird's song, 



As it peals through the rice grounds clear 



and strong; 

 With a sudden change from high to low, 

 And a rapid throh. as it beats to and fro. 



I have often wondered, that if our 

 song birds could only fly to Heaven's 

 Gate and there pour out their songs of 

 love, gratitude, and praise, what a great 

 blessing it would be for ornithologists 

 to know that tliese beautiful denizens 

 of our woods not only sing their songs 

 for our pleasure, but that they sing 

 them to the Creator who made them. 



Thei'e are many birds who belong to 

 the feathered choir, and if I were to 

 mention them, and tell you all about 

 them, it would fill a voluminous book. I 

 would solicit every boy and girl to be- 

 come a student of nature. It is an in- 

 exhaustible source of pleasure, and af- 

 fords one many a happy moment. 

 William M. Palmer, 



New York City. 



Clay-colored Sparrow- 



In the March issue of The Oologist, 

 page 21, Mr. Arnold records a nest 

 made of dried grass lined with hair con- 

 taining small blue eggs marked with 

 reddish brown, which he cannot iden- 

 tify. The eggs in question are un- 

 doubtedly those of the Clay-colored 

 Sparrow. 



This species I have found nesting 

 from Winnipeg right across the contin- 

 ent to the Rocky Mountain foothills. 

 Jt usually builds its nest in the grass at 

 the root of a shrub, but sometimes in a 

 bush as high as two feet above the 

 ground. 



The eggs are very beautiful and small- 

 er than those of the Chipping Sparrow, 

 of a greenish blue ground color spotted 

 and sometimes streaked at the larger 

 end with reddish brown. 



W. Raine, Toronto. 



