THE MOURNING DOVE 



built their usual structure, ornithologists would say it was instinc- 

 tive. When they leave all traces of the building of their species, 

 and fashion a compact nest of unaccustomed material, resembling 

 in colour the fence on which they build it, what shall it be called? 



I watched these birds to see if in any other way they differed 

 from the remainder of their family, but could detect no trait 

 unusual with every Dove I ever had known. From a grassy 

 couch under a big winesap closest their corner I studied every 

 feature of their daily life and found them common Doves. They 

 were no bigger than the average Dove, their plumage was the 

 same, they ate seeds to gluttony, their wings whistled when they 

 flew, they were closer the river than the road, yet they preferred 

 to bathe in the dust. The male verified all specifications relat- 

 ing to him as to constancy and tenderness. He stuffed his 

 brooding mate until she was compelled to refuse more food, then 

 loved her until he almost pushed her off her eggs. 



He always preceded the feeding process by locking bills in a 

 caress, then stroking her wing, then a bite and another caress and 

 locked bills at parting. When she would not take any more, 

 close against her as he could crowd he perched on the rail until she 

 frequently had to push him away to keep her carefully built nest 

 intact. I loved to watch and study them. I was waiting until 

 brooding had progressed a week or so before beginning a series of 

 pictures of them, when Bob with a discouraged face, met my 

 carriage. 



"Our Doves are gone," he said. 



I could only repeat: "Our Doves are gone?" 



"Yes," said Bob. "Aspy turned the cattle into the orchard 

 this morning and the very first thing they did was to get into 

 that shrubbery, pulling a limb across the nest that tore it up and 

 broke the eggs." 



A field worker must become accustomed to disappointment; 



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