12 



I HE OOLOGIST. 



White! Kob white! Iinituting its call. I 

 draw it nearer and nearei- until, catch- 

 ing sight of me, it takes flight with a 

 sudden whirring of wings. 



High in the air over the tree-tops, 

 sail a pair of hawks, dim specks in the 

 blue of the sky. I wander on, past the 

 deserted sugar-camp, which will not be 

 deserted in the spring-time, when the 

 sap l)egins to run. The calls of jays, 

 thrushes, finches, mingle with the 

 iioarser notes of the crow and deeper in 

 the forest the tat-tat-tat of the wood- 

 pecker is heard. How industrious they 

 are pecking away as though their lives 

 depended on their efforts; stopping 

 only to cock their heads on one side, 

 to examine their work, Ijcfore i-ecom- 

 mencing. 



There in that thorn l)ush, I hear faint 

 chirps; — four little thrushes crying for 

 food, and here their parent come, with 

 tierce chatterings to drive me away. 

 Come on, pretty bird, you shall not be 

 iiarmed! I leave them, and cross the 

 rippling brook at my feet. Up on the 

 hill is an empty log cabin, long fallen 

 lo decay. But it still has its living in- 

 mates, for as J get nearer, out of the 

 window there flies a little brown bird 

 seeking food, for the patient wife with- 

 in, sitting so lovingly on the six white 

 eggs, in tbe mossy nest on the beam. 

 It is the Phosbe or Pevvee as we call it, 

 Ihat has its home in this deserted old 

 cabin. 



But evening is coming on apace, the 

 sun sinks down behind the western 

 horizon, the birds fly quietly to their 

 nests, and my dog looks up in my face, 

 impatient to be at home. 



A 1 leave the dusky forest behind, 

 from the branches of whose trees arc 

 heard the faint chirps of sleepy birds, 

 l)ack in the dimness, I hear the loud 

 and clear notes of our night l)ird— 

 whip-poor-will - whip-poor-will - whip- 

 poor-will— (some little noise di.sturbs i 

 and it pauses for a moment, oidy to 

 take up tlie broken threat! of its soi;g, 



if song it can be called :)-whip-poor-wil!- 

 whip-poor-will— over and over again 

 for hours. The notes pouring forth, 

 one after another, have an inexpressi- 

 bly mournful sound, and yet they are 

 not unpleasant to the ear. 



But the sun has long been down;, 

 only a faint streak of i-ed in the west 

 marking its path; lights gleam out from 

 the windows of the farmhouse; I hear 

 the farmer calling: — Co-boss-co-boss! 

 and the answering low of the kine. As 

 I pass the pond, the frogs set up a uni- 

 versal croaking, almost deafening; the 

 bleating of sheep is heard, darkness^ 

 settles down on everj- side, Nature is at 

 rest. 



•'Springfield (Ills.) Boy." 



A "Good Enough" Way to Blow Eggs. 



As soon as 1 read Mr. Lock wood's 

 article in the Sept. 1889 Oologist, I got 

 "on to the racket," as his method of 

 blowing eggs promised to cover a great 

 difficulty in my case, viz.: That of 

 blowing eggs by "human labor." 



We had an old syringe but it was at 

 one of the neighbor's houses It was 

 raining, Imt I mounted a horse and 

 rode over and got the syringe, return- 

 ing in haste to practice on a pigeon's 

 egg. The syringe was one of those con- 

 sisting of a bulb and two rubber tubes, 

 one running each way from the bulb. 

 At the end of one tube is a spout and 

 at the end of the other is a valve to let 

 water in and keep it from going: out 

 after it is in and the bulb is compi-essed. 



I thought I would not follow Mr. L.'s 

 directions to the letter, but would fii-st 

 experiment a little. So I removed the 

 spout and put in its place one (jf (Lat- 

 tin's) white metal blowpipes. I fixed 

 t'le i)lowpipe stationary and held the 

 e^g with one hand while I worked tee 

 bidl) with the other. 



After a little practice I found that 

 this syringe was "just the thing" to 

 blow eggs with and that I had hit the 



