In Southern Hoosier Hills 47 



After a while I saw one of the buzzards leisurely flap his 

 wings, and then launch out once more upon his sailing flight. 

 As a matter of experiment I singled the bird out with my eye 

 from his fellows, took out my watch, and sat down on a 

 stump. Twenty minutes passed before that buzzard found it 

 necessary to gain new soaring power from another wing- 

 stroke. One of the birds dropped down to a point within 

 thirty yards of us just as we were passing a farm-yard. The 

 yard was full of chickens, and while the ordinary hen is always 

 ready to give a cluck of fear when a bird as harmless as a 

 pigeon passes over, these fowls paid no attention whatever to 

 the big bird whose shadow was thrown over them. The 

 chickens* ancestors doubtless had learned the harmless char- 

 acter of the buzzard, and the knowledge was one of the 

 hereditary properties of these particular barn-yard fowls. 



With a courage born of hunger the doctor and I rapped 

 at the door of a farm-house and asked if we might have some 

 dinner. The answer was a hearty, "Yes, and welcome, if 

 you'll wait until we can cook it." 



We were not only willing to wait, but were glad of a 

 chance to rest. We took station on the porch, in front of 

 which stood a tree that was full of woodpecker holes. This 

 farm-house was twelve miles from a railroad station, and the 

 nearest neighbor was three-quarters of a mile away, yet here 

 in this isolated spot were the English sparrows in scores. This 

 pest is thought to be city-loving, but here it was perfectly at 

 home miles away from its supposedly favorite haunts. Every 

 woodpecker's hole in the tree had a pair of sparrows in it, 

 and each pair was busy building a nest. When I thought 

 what those holes would mean as home-sites for the bluebirds 

 that we had passed on our way, I was ready to eject the 



