AROUND OUR RANCH-HOUSE. 97 



his roundelay. He stopped short, bobbed ner- 

 vously from side to side, and then, rising to his 

 feet and putting his right foot forward with a 

 pretty courageous gesture, took up his song again. 

 When the pair were building in the crate, I stuck 

 some white hen's feathers there, thinking they 

 might like to use them. Mr. Troglodytes came 

 first, and seeing them, instead of turning tail as 

 I have known brave guardians of the nest to do, 

 burst out singing, as if it were a huge joke. 

 Then he hopped down on the rim of the box to 

 scrutinize the plumes, after which he flew out. 

 But he had to stop to sing atilt of an elder stem 

 before he could go on to tell his spouse about 

 them. 



One day, when riding back to the ranch, I saw 

 half a dozen turkey buzzards soaring over the 

 meadow — perhaps there was a dead jack-rabbit 

 in the field. It was astonishing to see how soon 

 the birds would discover small carrion from their 

 great height. The ranchman never thought of 

 burying anything, they were such good scaven- 

 gers. A few hours after an animal was thrown 

 out in the field the vultures would find it. They 

 would stand on the body and pull it to pieces in 

 the most revolting way, The ranchman told me 

 he had seen them circle over a pair of fighting 

 snakes, waiting to devour the one that was in- 

 jured. They were grotesque birds. I often saw 

 them walk with their wings held out at their sides 



