156 Bird-Land Echoes. 



"Do they recognize you by your white hat?" I 

 asked. 



"No," he indignantly repHed ; "by my good 

 quahties. These kingfishers and all the birds about 

 here are my friends. Why, there's not a barn- 

 swallow in the attic that won't let me touch it on the 

 nest, nor a cat-bird or * fire-fly' [he meant redstart] 

 that won't come at call ; and if it wasn't for gunners, 

 the wild ducks would swim up the tail-race to feed. 

 One funny little diver docs come every spring and fall." 



I had found a treasure in the dusty miller, and all 

 my tactics changed. His inordinate self-esteem was 

 in part excusable and more amusing than offensive. 

 The man was truthful as this world goes ; so I was 

 all smiles and credulity, and let him tell me about 

 the mill-pond birds. 



"Somehow, the red-winged blackbirds take my 

 fancy most. There's a cheer in the ring of their 

 voices, when pretty near a thousand of 'em sing out 

 together, that stirs you up like a camp-meetin' con- 

 cert. Somehow, I've got in the way of always 

 lookin' up the pond from the mill door for the first 

 of 'em any time in February, and March doesn't 

 seem such a bad month when the blackbirds are 

 sprinkled all over the meadows. I can hear 'em, 

 with a south wind, when they're all 'way down along 

 the lower marsh. I like 'em ; and no matter how 

 the old mill rattles, if one of 'em sings out ho-ko-lee, 

 I'm right on hand and don't lose much of the music. 

 Oh, it's fine when they pair off and get to nest- 

 buildin' in the bushes across the pond. There's 



