BERKELEY IN MAY 



Down through the canons which furrow the side of the 

 Berkeley hills wend clear, silver streams of mountain water, 

 hurrying on their way to the sea. Let us take our way during 

 the heat of the noon from the grassy hillside into the cool shade 

 of one of these retreats, beside the babbling stream that is 

 making perpetual music in the springtime. Here the live-oaks 

 spread their branching limbs over the land, and close by the 

 water's edge the willows and alders sway to the gentle in- 

 fluence of the salt breezes that have come through the Golden 

 Gate. 



An emphatic little pee wit greets us as we enter the quiet 

 of the canon, where the breeze sings in an undertone and the 

 silver-tongued brook sounds in a subdued murmur. Looking 

 about for the humble musician who does his best to enliven the 

 scene with his apology for a song, we see, perched upon a bush, 

 a quiet little bird with large eyes and a broad, flattened beak 

 edged with bristles. His plumage is a dull olive on the back, 

 brownish or greenish in tone, with a dull white breast tinged 

 with pale sulphur-yellow. There he sits upon the bush, flirting 

 his tail emphatically at every utterance of the pee wiU and 

 snapping viciously at any stray insect that approaches too near. 

 Our new acquaintance is the western flycatcher, and a very 

 pleasant little fellow he is to know, with his old-fashioned ways 

 and simple, quiet life by the stream. His mate, I suspect, has 

 hidden her mossy nest in some little niche in the clay bank of 

 the canon, among the roots of some old tree, perhaps, for I 

 have often found it in such situations; and I dare say she is 

 setting upon five delicate white eggs, thickly speckled with 

 brown, for such is the habit with these little folk ; and, further- 

 more, I think there is no doubt that she listens to the pee wit 



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