If 



THE 00L0QI8T 



cept for an apparent shifting, on tbe 

 part af the Yellow Rails, (due, I feel 

 sure, to intensive grazing of the 

 meadows), all three of these. Rail, 

 Snipe, Phalarope, are quite as common 

 as ever. And the nests of three will 

 continue still to elude all save those 

 that have learned how! 



Since this article has been intended 

 more as a sort of survey of the bird- 

 life of the Cheyenne Basin than as an 

 excursus into the fascinating domain 

 of nest hunting, it may, perhaps, suf- 

 fice to speak rather briefly of the birds 

 that haunt the alkaline lakes of that 

 region; and then devote what space 

 remains at our disposal to some obser- 

 vations on the social ways, and the 

 tricks of nest-concealing, with the Wil- 

 son Snipe. 



All told, one might fairly say that 

 the entire Cheyenne Basin, bed of a 

 noble ancient river, is a rather well- 

 linked succession of alkaline lakes. 

 (Of course, there are scattered lakes 

 and ponds of this character on the 

 plains and even at the crests of some 

 of the lower buttes). But the alkaline 

 lake, par excellence, is that of the low- 

 est portions of the basin. Such lakes 

 are wonderfully picturesque. Picture 

 to yourself, now, a broad, flat surface, 

 well-strewn with boulders of no great 

 size. These encircle a wide reach of 

 black muck; and this, in turn, an area 

 of slimy marl. Shallow, indeed, are 

 the waters, rarely over six inches, 

 often much less. Here, in late May 

 swarms of sand peeps wheel and 

 whirl. Here a whilom Willet flashes 

 into the sun rays the glory of his 

 white-barred wings. Meanwhile, his 

 inspiriting "Ter-whear-whear-it" rings 

 out exultantly. And then, maybe, if 

 you are in luck, your startled ear will 

 tingle as a clear, loud, mellow "Tur- 

 rit! tur-rit!" rings out, just over your 

 head; while a majestic Marbled God- 

 wit deigns to circle about you, in de- 

 liberate survey, before passing on to 



his feeding grounds. And here, too, 

 one must not forget, wheel and dip the 

 flocks of Black Terns, reminding you 

 of how you loudly laughed, but yester- 

 day when you were ploughing lustily 

 through lush grass and muck, asearch 

 for something that quite eluded you, 

 and a shrilly shrieking Black Tern 

 dove down at you, and white-washed 

 you, all over, with excrement. (And 

 then you sighted the four-inch nest of 

 marsh-mass, resting on the surface of 

 the yellow water, simple enough, yet 

 neat enough, with its ever-variant 

 crown of three mottled eggs). As you 

 drag your feet wearily out of the marl, 

 (for you are wading out to the tiny 

 island to visit the Ring-billed Gulls 

 and the Spotted Sandpipers and the 

 spot where you found, twelve years 

 ago, the deserted nest of a Canada 

 Goose), a softly uttered whistle fairly 

 startles you with its distinctness, for 

 all it was so soft. And then, present- 

 ly, as you gain the shore and find just 

 a bit of narrow pebble-margin beyond 

 the muck, your eyes catch, — and what 

 a wonder it is!— four speckled eggs, 

 quite the color of the gravel stones, ly- 

 ing in a scantily heaped up cairn of 

 little pebbles. And so, you have found 

 a "nest" of the Piping Plover! Next 

 day you are back amid the fine grass 

 area, amid the coarse grass environ, 

 of your Yellow-Rail meadow. In mud, 

 sometimes to your knees, you flounder, 

 listening most intently, for that longed- 

 for "Tick-tick, tick-tick-tick," with its 

 mere suggestion of the hollow throati- 

 ness of the call of the Virginia Rail. 

 Then, of a sudden, you hear a sound 

 that is neither call nor cry, just a mel- 

 low, far-sounding whistle, as of vi- 

 brant wings. At intervals, quite 

 strangely uniform, you heard it. And 

 it was far in the air! 



Then, presently, you caught sight of 

 the source of that exhilarating sound. 

 On fitful wings, looping long, slow 

 loops, there was a snipe. And, ever 



