The Oologists' Record, March i, 1922. 



easternmost point of these pine-clad mountains which we had to 

 round to get to our objective point. Mile after mile the groves of 

 golden oranges vied in colour with the more golden poppies, 

 those magnificent flowers which the Spaniards and Mexicans call 

 " Capa de Oro," or literally " Mantle of Gold." Fields and groves 

 were alive with various small birds, but we had eyes for only one 

 thing and that was the distant pass between the ranges where we 

 knew the road drew near to our desire. 



All things come to an end sooner or later, and so this ride. We 

 drew away from the main travelled road and took the motor as 

 far in towards the hill as we were able, and parked it under the 

 scanty shade of a small sycamore tree. From here it was a case 

 of footing it, and this meant some real work as we were carrying 

 over three hundred feet of rope and chain. The Dotted Canon 

 Wrens were calling on all sides, and various Sparrows, Bush-tits 

 and Towhees were in evidence as we progressed. Ahead of us 

 through a cut in the low-lying foot-hills we could catch glimpses 

 of a mighty escarpment of white granite and limestone. These 

 immense cliffs stood out in bold relief against the back slopes of 

 the mountains behind, and looked like the creations of some past 

 dim and distant prehistoric age. Grease wood and grey sage 

 brush clothed the slopes at the base, interspersed here and there 

 with the mahogany coloured branches of the manzanita and 

 mountain holly. Closer approach showed the barren rocks to be 

 figured here and there with patterns of grey and yellow lichens ; 

 a crimson blossom of the Indian paint-brush peeped from a crevice 

 on the shaded side of a cliff, but beside this all was bare, hard 

 uncompromising rock, with scarcely a foothold anywhere for man 

 or beast. Now a patch of rubbish and sticks, high up in a pot-hole, 

 proclaims this a feudal stronghold of the Ravens. Yes, there sails 

 one of these sombre birds against the sky. Now he dips down behind 

 the nearest cliff and I wait for the sharp " chee," " hee," " hee ' 

 of the Prairie Falcon, for these two are always at odds, but instead 

 here comes a dark, blue-black bird, a living bullet, the quick 

 wing beats almost defying the eye to follow them and with such 

 a screaming that all my doubts were dissipated at once : it was a 

 Duck Hawk. 



M}^ friend had worked his way farther ahead, our plan being 

 for one man to watch the cliffs, while the other climbed a bit^ 

 and vice versa, for in this way we would be able to spot the nest as 



