spring on the Kankakee 109 



known to be dwelt upon. The cow-bird, in the spring, has 

 just one sweet note. That is to say, at times this one note 

 is sweet. If the bird tries to continue the performance it fails 

 miserably, producing something like the sound of a file drawn 

 over a lemon-grater. As we stood that May morning listen- 

 ing for a repetition of the yellow-throat's "witchety," there 

 came one liquid note from a treetop. In chorus we said, 

 "Cow-bird." The next instant there followed note after note 

 of liquid beauty from the same treetop, and shamefacedly we 

 looked at one another and said, "Wood thrush." If greater 

 ignominy can come to bird-students who have haunted the 

 fields for years than to mistake the note of one of America's 

 sweetest singers for that of the despised cow-bird, let it be 

 named. The wood thrush forgave us for the insult and heaped 

 coals of fire on our heads by continuing his song as long as 

 we staid to listen. 



The catbirds and the brown thrashers sang their medleys 

 from the thicket. The Kankakee River country is a catbird 

 and thrasher paradise. We saw more catbirds during that 

 May outing than we did robins. The region affords the cat- 

 birds ideal nesting-places, and judging solely from numbers 

 I should say that it will be many generations before their 

 race is run. A swamp extending back from the river en- 

 croaches upon the pasture-land. We had not left the sing- 

 ing thrush far behind before we started a green heron from its 

 swamp retreat. A lesser blue heron took flight a moment 

 later. It is a much rarer bird than its green brother. As we 

 were about to retrace our steps a great blue heron ceased its 

 frog hunting and flapped away leisurely over the trees. On 

 the way back to the house and to breakfast, we crossed a 

 foot-bridge. A male phcebe was sitting on a post near at 



