AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 107 



city eager to "bag" something that has once been alive, to prove their prow- 

 sse to admiring friends, made their appearance one fall day, yearning for 

 blood. It makes little difference to such, what they hunt, or where they shoot 

 their "game." Jim's curiosity was strong, as he saw these strangers stealth- 

 ily making their way through the fields. He went out to follow them in his 

 usual manner, first keeping behind, they flying ahead. Their unfamiliar 

 ways interested him; he alighted on a tree over their heads, to see what they 

 would do next. 



A little less thirst for gore, a modicum of common sense, and they would 

 have known that this fearless, well kept bird was "somebody's darling," And 

 that was the end of Jim's busy, happy, progressive life. It is needless to 

 add that he was mourned by the entire village. 



3210 Summer St., Philadelphia, Pa. 



THE PRAIRIE HORNED LARK, 

 By Edgar Boyer. 



One of the most interesting birds of this locality is the Prairie Horned 

 Lark. He is one of our common species, and I have known him since my 

 earliest boyhood rambles. In those days, when I had occasion to mention 

 him in my note book, I designated him as the "Ground Sparrow." That was 

 before I had ever seen a bird book. Bird literature was not as plentiful then, 

 as now, and I found it necessary to invent names of my own for the birds, 

 sometimes. 



The Lark is a resident here. In the winter they roam about in flocks, fly- 

 ing rapidly across the sky high over head, and uttering as they go, a clear 

 whistled "T-t-t-to-o-o." As spring comes on the male begins singing his 

 little insect-like ground song. Sitting contentedly on a clod out in the field, 

 heard, but not seen, he sings over, and over, "Tc, tc, tc, tc,-olc-o-le-tc." 



I had the good fortune to find the home of a family of these little birds 

 near my own home last summer. It was on a day in April — the 26th — that 

 I was walking along a wire fence that separated a meadow from a freshly 

 ploughed field. It was a typical April day. We had had a shower the night 

 before and there was that pure, refreshing, buoyant quality in the air, such 

 as we have only on an April day. The earth was soft, black and spongey, 

 and little clumps of clover were appearing fresh and green, all over the 

 meadow. In the sky Tree Swallows reveled, turning, wheeling, and darting 

 after one another, and all making their way steadily northward. 



It was on this morning that, as I walked along the fence, I flushed a male 

 Lark. He seemed decidedly ill at ease and, as I watched him, I became 

 aware of the presence of the female too. Where she came from, or how she 



