THE KILLDEER 



around her, for I once was so familiar with a Killdeer she would 

 have allowed me even greater familiarity than would be required 

 for that. 



There are birds which make me feel that the title of this book 

 should be "Failures in Feathers." This Killdeer was one of my 

 worst. She was a last-year's bird, this her first brooding. She 

 was nervous and foolish. She would suffer the horses to come 

 very close, but the first glimpse of John would send her a gray 

 streak across the field. I tried to accustom her to a tripod; that 

 she bore; but when a small camera covered with twigs was placed 

 on it, she left her eggs and would not return. 



She was accustomed to the open field. She deserted her nest 

 at every device I could think of, circling above, crying so plain- 

 tively that my heart failed me until I removed the camera. She 

 would not submit to a camera covered with a green cloth, grasses, 

 or a false stump. My experience with her did much to confirm 

 me in my belief that it is almost impossible to work with a young 

 bird in her first brooding. After a season or two and several 

 nestings a female matures and grows in confidence. She learns 

 to distinguish friends from enemies and unfamiliar objects 

 from dangers, so that work about her can be carried on with 

 some degree of assurance, especially after her eggs have quick- 

 ened. 



While lying awake nights trying to concoct some scheme 

 whereby to outwit Mother Killdeer, I was compelled to miss one 

 day's visit to her, and on going the following, found only a bare 

 spot of earth surrounded by a few clods and chips. AMiile I 

 closely investigated to see if any signs of tragedy could be found, 

 my ear caught the sweetest, faintest silver thread of a cry 

 conceivable from the throat of a bird baby. I glanced toward 

 the pool. Across its bare bank moved the brown and white body 

 of the mother, her slender legs invisible in the rapidity of motion; 



107 



