November, 1S92.] 



AND OOLOGIST. 



169 



granary twisted to discord with the points 

 of compass ; glimpses of the yellow, foam- 

 ing bank full river ; tiny walks and ter- 

 races of fine dead grass and pebbles on 

 every hillside among the flowers, where 

 the sheets of water had poured down the 

 slopes, the holes of the prairie dogs, fun- 

 neled high, on the uphill side ; for, "them 

 little critters knows better than to get 

 drownded," dryly explained an old settler, 

 "and so, before it rains, they just makes 

 a dyke around their holes." 



But now all is peace. A Goshawk 

 floats overhead, brilliant in his pied coat 

 of drab and white ; the flowers nod as if 

 they had never been lashed with cruel 

 wind and cut by fierce hail ; and the great 

 fat mother prairie dogs, asquat with flut- 

 tering tails, beside their holes, unceasingly 

 pipe and shriek for the scattered litter of 

 half-grown young to come and be safe 

 from the terrible monster that is passing 

 by. At noon I pass a grim hunter with 

 his pack of stag hounds, out after wolves 

 and the twenty-five dollars bounty offered 

 by the ranchmen. Farther on, as I pass 

 a high ravine bridge that is sinking into 

 the pit recently made by the washout of 

 the clay, I see my first bird carrying nest 

 material ; a soft, gray bird bearing a long 

 streamer of something trailing far behind. 

 But it gives forth a strange note ; and I 

 look sharply and learn my mistake, — the 

 trailing thing is a tail, and its bearer a 

 Scissor-tail. 



It is Sunday, and my only arsenic is 

 salt ; but I must have that bird. It is shot, 

 measured, and skinned at once, for the 

 sun is very hot. An hour before sundown, 

 I see the roofs of Lake City just ahead, 

 and I have made twenty miles. After 

 a refreshing bath in a clear pool, grass 

 fringed, in a newly broken field, while 

 the little hyles blow out their bubble 

 throats at my very toes, with piping loud 

 enough for bullfrogs. I press on, and 

 pay seventy-five cents for a twenty-five 



cent lodging at the one hotel, after wad- 

 ing the eighty-rod bed of the two-inch 

 stream, for the Medicine here is Platte-like 

 in its course. Next morning I pick my 

 way onward through the mud engendered 

 by last night's hard rain. A mile or two 

 out, as I cross, barefoot, the sandy gyp- 

 sum-stream bed of a tributary stream, a 

 man drives up in the meagrest road cart 

 imaginable : "Is the stage coming soon? " 

 I ask: "/am the stage," he quietly said. 

 "Well," with a glance at the scant accom- 

 modations slung between those two light 

 wheels : " Well, I guess you needn't bring 

 my grip. You won't be able to carry it 

 and me when I go back." 



Still northwest. There is a newly 

 broken "claim," and the road changes, 

 " stReioHt WESt" says the sign. Over on 

 the field lies a carcass with four vultures 

 gorging themselves upon it. Beyond is 

 an immense prairie-dog village of eighty 

 or a hundred acres in extent. I cross a 

 difficult ford ; away yonder is a score of 

 motley buildings, weather-scarred, new, 

 ancient and modern. And soon I am 

 THERE ! And so are the Kites. Over a 

 high table land north of the town a flock 

 of twelve is steadily sailing, sailing, look- 

 ing for food. Instantly I am shaking 

 hands with the quiet, whole-souled ranch- 

 man previousl}^ unknown to me save by a 

 brief correspondence and for eight un- 

 blown Kite eggs, ready to hatch, sent me 

 last season. 



" No, you don't want to go to anv 

 hotel. You'll stay with us while you are 

 here. After dinner we'll see about the 

 Kites." And we went, on broncho back, 

 two miles to the heavy timber along the 

 Medicine. 



An occasional Kite skims overhead on 

 the wind, making my heart thrill with an- 

 ticipation. In fifteen minutes I sight my 

 first nest, in a small leaning elm among 

 the heavy timber, quite well out on a 

 semi-horizontal branch, quite flat, of small 



