AMONG THE SAGE BUSHES. 183 



may be a thousand, as like each other as so 

 many peas. The particular bush that hid my 

 chewink babies had to be marked, as one would 

 mark the special tuft of grass that hides a bobo- 

 link's nest. 



However, I spent an hour or two every day 

 in the sage patch, watching the wind sweep over 

 it in silvery waves, and getting acquainted with 

 the nesting-birds. All sorts of manoeuvres the 

 father of the family tried on me, such as going 

 about carrying food conspicuously in the mouth, 

 then pretending to visit a far-off spot and re- 

 turning without it ; but he always ended by 

 mounting the oak brush, ruffling up his neck 

 feathers till they stood out like a ruff, and 

 uttering his cry ; it can hardly be called of dis- 

 tress, it became so evidently perfunctory. His 

 mate never tried deception, but relied upon 

 skulking to and fro, unseen among the bushes. 



In seven or eight days, as soon, in fact, as they 

 could stand, the nestlings deserted the little 

 home and I saw them no more, but I learned 

 one fact new to me about the singing of the 

 chewink. After the nest was abandoned I sat 

 down in the usual place, hoping to hear the sil- 

 ver tremolo I am so fond of. In a moment my 

 bird began. Securely hidden, as he thought, by 

 the impenetrable oak brush, in the dim seclu- 

 sion he loves, he poured out his simple yet 



