128 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



Canello acted much as he had when hearing the 

 rattlesnake, and did not quiet down till horse and 

 rider were out of sight. The ranch-man told me 

 he had been cruelly treated by the Mexican who 

 broke him, so perhaps it was another case of asso- 

 ciation of ideas. 



East of the willows, and separated from them 

 by the dark green mallows and bright yellow 

 California forget-me-nots, was the sycamore where 

 the shrike was driven off by the blackbirds. 

 Here a little brown wren had taken up her abode. 

 The nest was in a dead limb with a lengthwise 

 slit, and a scoop at the end like an apple-corer, 

 so when one of the wrens flew down its hole with 

 a stick, the twig stuck out of the crack as she 

 ran along with it. She quite won my heart by 

 her frank way of meeting her landlady. Instead 

 of flying off, she looked me over and then quietly 

 sat down in her doorway to wait for her mate. 



On the road to my sycamores was a deserted 

 whitewashed adobe. The place had become over- 

 grown with weeds, vines, and bushes, and was 

 taken possession of by squirrels and birds. 

 Nature had reclaimed it, covering its ugly scars 

 with garlands, and making it bloom under her 

 tender touch. One morning, as I rode by, a 

 black phoebe was perched on the old adobe chim- 

 ney of the little house, while his mate sat on the 

 board that covered the well, in a way that made it 

 easy to jump to a conclusion. When she flew 



