296 BIRDS OF THE ROCKIES 



One day in the latter part of June, as I was climbing 

 the steep side of a mesa in the neighborhood of Golden, 

 my ear was greeted by a new style of bird music, which 

 came lilting sweetly down to me from the height. It 

 had a kind of wild, challenging ring about it, as if the 

 singer were daring me to venture upon his demesne at 

 my peril. A hard climb brought me at length within 

 range of the little performer, who was blowing his 

 Huon's horn from the pointed top of a large stone on 

 the mesa's side. My field-glass was soon fixed upon 

 him, revealing a little bird with a long beak, decurved 

 at the end, a grayish-brown coat quite thickly barred 

 and mottled on the wings and tail, and a vest of warm 

 white finely sprinkled with a dusky gray. A queer, 

 shy, timid little thing he was. Afterwards I met him 

 often, but never succeeded in gaining his confidence or 

 winning a single concession from him. He was the rock 

 wren (Salpinctes obsoletus) a species that is unknown 

 east of the Great Plains, one well deserving a place in 

 literature. 



I was especially impressed with his peculiar style of 

 minstrelsy, so different from anything I had ever heard 

 in the bird realm. While the song was characterized 

 by much variety, it usually opened with two or three 

 loud, clear syllables, somewhat prolonged, sounding, as 

 has been said, like a challenge, followed by a peculiar 

 bubbling trill that seemed fairly to roll from the piper's 



