:::::::::*• TWO BIRD -LOVERS IN MEXICO ;*::::::::: 



were heard — like the last efforts of the dying katy- 

 dids at the time of the first frost. But the wren him- 

 self was far from sleepy. The heat had simply thawed 

 the frozen music from his heart and he now beoan the 

 serious work of the day. There were spiders and flies 

 to be sought among the boulders, and the bird became 

 a feathered mouse — creei)ing or running silently and 

 swiftly over the rocks, now slipping into a crevice, 

 whence he emerged with a half-frozen insect. A quick 

 wipe of his bill and he jumped rather than flew to the 

 next likely-looking place. So all day goes the tiny 

 bundle of feathered energy, the little eyes seeing every- 

 thing, the ears ever on the alert, tail erect, reflecting 

 every emotion. To catch a Canyon Wren asleep would 

 offer itself as a feat worthy of being classed with the 

 proverbial effort to find a needle in a hay-stack. Of 

 all the birds of the barrancas these wrens perhaps won 

 our deepest affection ; so tiny were they, and yet each 

 morning filling the whole great gorge with their sweet- 

 ness. 



But the wrens were not the only early risers near 

 our tents. A series of sharp explosions or clicks, as 

 if from some large insect, or perhaps comparable to an 

 exploding pack of very small fire-crackers, mystified us, 

 until a tiny green and white form perched upon a stone 

 in mid-stream, and we knew the author to be a Little 

 Green Kingfisher. This was the term which we applied 

 to him before learning his Latin name, some thirty let- 



-4 142 ^ 



