The Songsters of the Skokie 23 



the name, and from mullen-stalk, or tree, all day long in the 

 May month he proclaims his proper name in a strident tone, 

 "Dickcissel, Dickcissel, Dickcissel." The books call Dick 

 the black-throated bunting. Formerly the bird was common 

 on the Atlantic coast; now it is rarely found east of the Alle- 

 ghany Mountains. As far as my own observations go, I can- 

 not say that I have found it an abundant bird in the Middle 

 West. Dick is essentially a bird of the fields, and yet he 

 surprised me one day by appearing in a tree in a Chicago 

 street, and there giving voice to his name as insistently as 

 though his native meadow stretches lay below. 



Two dilapidated barns stand near an old orchard across the 

 road from Dickcissel's field. Many years ago the apple-trees 

 shaded a small house, but that is gone, and a season or two 

 more at the most will see the last of the barns. Then what 

 will become of the swallows who have made the old gray build- 

 ings their summer abiding-place for years? Trespassers must 

 be few in the old tumble-down structures, for the barn swal- 

 lows place their nests upon the rafters within easy reach of 

 the ground, and seem utterly fearless of danger. Ordinarily, 

 the barn swallows put their mud and feathered homes far up 

 under the ridge-pole, but in these old barns, where they have 

 dwelt so many years in peace, the birds rear their young not 

 more than six feet above Mother Earth. On the occasion of 

 my first visit to this barn swallow resort, I was accompanied 

 by a big Newfoundland dog. I had seen the swallows pass 

 in and out the open doorway, and I jumped the fence to get 

 a glimpse of their housekeeping. The dog. Jack, jumped 

 with me. No sooner had Jack landed on the other side than 

 the swallows swooped down on him. They grazed his head 

 in passing, and I was ready to declare that they tweaked his 



