224 WiDMANN, Baird's and Lccontes Sparrows. Fjulv 



remote. One has spied something in the weeds below and, 

 hanging Oriole-fashion from the lowest branch, dips down its 

 head and body for a moment and emerges with a big dragon-fly, 

 which it soon dispatches wings and all. 



A line old Marsh Hawk, in blue mantle and reddish apron, 

 who has been overhauling the marsh with untiring wing ever 

 since sunrise, pays a flying visit to the lake, but the birds do not 

 mind him much ; all seem to be on friendly terms with him. Six 

 Mallards which had been lying still amidst the sheltering plants 

 go up with tokens of surprise and swinging around are heading 

 for Horse Shoe Lake, two drakes in front, the females closely 

 in pursuit. A solitary Purple Finch alights in the tree over 

 our head, gives half a dozen calls, a few strains of music, and 

 proceeds. The Savannas which we found along the lake on our 

 arrival have long since disappeared among the grasses of the 

 marsh, but the Swamp Sparrows are getting quite familiar. 

 They are well dressed for this time of the year, bright chestnut 

 and blue-gray colors in conspicuous places, but the bright red 

 cap which they donned before departure in the spring must have 

 been left behind somewhere in the neighborhood of their nests. 



From the direction the Mallards took comes the report of a 

 heavy gun, and the Mallards come flying back in haste, but ther^ 

 are only five of them. 



In the locust over our head a most startling outcry is now 

 heard, almost like a chicken in great distress. It is a Shrike, 

 which therewith calls the attention of its mate to the hidden foe 

 beneath, saying, no doubt, " Be on your guard, there is one of 

 those monstrous gum-boots who carry thunder and lightning 

 into our tranquil habitation, and shed the blood of the innocent 

 wherever they go." Kri kri comes from the neighboring tree, 

 meaning clearly : " I see him, I keep an eye on him ; better let us 

 go " ; and off they go. 



Turning away from the lake we follow the slough, a narrow 

 ditch inclosed by a wide border of flags, several feet high, deep 

 green below, but cinnamon on the tips. This is the home of 

 the Marsh Wrens, and one, with a conspicuous superciliary, 

 almost white and sharply contrasting against the plain dark 

 pileum comes up into a bush and sings its simple tune, keeping 



