38 IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 



air and cheerfulness of a funeral dirge a pes- 

 simistic performance that inspires the listener 

 with a desire to choke him then and there. 



This bird's nest, as well as his song, is unlike 

 that of our wood-pewee. Instead of a delicate, 

 lichen-covered saucer set lightly upon a horizon- 

 tal crotch of a dead branch, our bird's chosen 

 home, it is a deeper cup, fastened tightly upon 

 a large living branch, and, at least in a cotton- 

 wood grove, decorated on the outside with the 

 fluffy cotton from the trees. 



Even the humming-bird, who contents him- 

 self in this part of the world with a modest 

 hum, heard but a short distance away, at the 

 foot of the Rocky Mountains may almost be 

 called a noisy bird. The first one I noticed 

 dashed out of a thickly leaved tree with loud, 

 angry cries, swooped down toward me, and flew 

 back and forth over my head, scolding with a 

 hum which, considering his size, might almost 

 be called a roar. I could not believe my ears 

 until my eyes confirmed their testimony. The 

 sound was not made by the wings, but was 

 plainly a cry strong and harsh in an extraordi- 

 nary degree. 



The Western ruby-throat has other singular- 

 ities which differentiate him from his Eastern 

 brother. It is very droll to see one of his 

 family take part in the clamors of a bird mob, 



