VII. 



ABOUND OUR RANCH-HOUSE. 



Close up under the hills, the old vine-covered 

 ranch-house stood within a circle of great spread- 

 ing live oaks. The trees were full of noisy, 

 active blackbirds — Brewer's blackbirds, relatives 

 of the rusty that we know in New York. The 

 ranchman told me that they always came up the 

 valley from the vineyard to begin gathering 

 straws for their nests on his brother's birthday, 

 the twenty-fifth of March. After that time it 

 was well for passers below to beware. If an 

 unwary cat, or even a hen or turkey gobbler, 

 chanced under the blackbirds' tree, half a dozen 

 birds would dive down at it, screaming and scold- 

 ing till the intruders beat an humble retreat. 

 But the blackbirds were not always the aggress- 

 ors. I heard a great outcry from them one day, 

 and ran out to find them collecting at the tree in 

 front of the house. A moment later a hawk flew 

 off with a young nestling, and was followed by an 

 angry black mob. 



One pair of the blackbirds nested in the oak 

 by the side of the house, over the hammock. 

 Though making themselves so perfectly at home 



