FRIENDS IN FEATHERS 



crying birds." I could not remember having seen a study of 

 the nest of a Killdeer published, not even in a recent work de- 

 voted exclusively to bird architecture, or a reproduction of the 

 young. I promptly hugged Mrs. Stukey, because I love these 

 big-souled countn r people who save me nests, lay down their 

 fences, offer food and a cooling drink, and try in every way to 

 help me in work they do not always understand, merely because 

 they enjoy being kind and helpful. Then I hurried to the east 

 corn-field. 



The gate from the road into the field was nailed shut, so I 

 hitched my horse, whose original name was Ben, but regardless of 

 sex, since has been changed to Patience: for obvious reasons; 

 climbed the gate and started for what seemed like a stake far 

 across the field. Part of my course lay between the weather- 

 beaten dry weeds and the stubble of last year's crop; the re- 

 mainder over freshly plowed ground. 



The open sunny field was almost a sheet of green in perspec- 

 tive, with the tender upspringing wild lettuce, silvery catnip, 

 golden green dandelion and pale whitish burdock. The light 

 green felt of the mullein and the rank dark green of the thistle 

 spread everywhere in big plants, that had slept securely beneath 

 the snows and renewed their vigorous growth before the last 

 drifts of March had passed. It occurred to me to wonder if we 

 had learned everything about thistles and mullein it was in- 

 tended we should. These plants must have been made so 

 rank and so hardy for some especial reason which I scarcely 

 think we have found. 



On nearing the plowed ground, a clamour broke on my ears 

 and I stopped, enthralled by one of the most beautiful sights 

 conceivable. Down the field came John, the lines hanging over a 

 plow-handle, guiding his powerful gray Percherons by his voice, 

 a black line of swamp loam rolling up as he passed, while myriads 



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