70 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



went out to mount Billy, I was shocked to find the 

 body of one of the old woodpeckers on the saddle. 

 I thought it had been shot, but found it had been 

 picked up in the prune orchard. That afternoon 

 its mate was. brought in from the same place. 

 Probably both birds had eaten poisoned raisins 

 left out for the gophers. The dead birds were 

 thrown out under the orange-trees near the house, 

 and not many hours afterward, when I looked out 

 of the window, two turkey vultures were sitting 

 on the ground, one of them with a pathetic little 

 black wing in his bill. The great black birds 

 seemed horrible to me, — ugly, revolting creatures. 

 I went outside to see what they would do, and 

 after craning their long red necks at me and stalk- 

 ing around nervously a few moments they flew off. 

 Now what would become of the small birds im- 

 prisoned in the tree trunk, with no one to bring 

 them food, no one to show them how to get out, 

 or, if they were out, to feed them till they had 

 learned how to care for themselves? Sad and 

 anxious, I rode down to the sycamore. I rapped 

 on its trunk, calling chuck' -ah as much like the 

 old birds as possible. There was an instant an- 

 swer from a strong rattling voice and a weak pip- 

 ing one. The weak voice frightened me. If that 

 little bird's life were to be saved, it was time to 

 be about it. The ranchman's son was pruning the 

 vineyard, and I rode over to get him to come and 

 see how we could rescue the little prisoners. 



