A Bit of River 79 



of the bluebird, the sharp, insistent exclamation of 

 the yellow warbler, the cheer-cheer, or cadenced 

 fluting of the redwing, the low contralto of the 

 cuckoo, the exquisite, though sorrowful plaint of the 

 dove, the well-beloved tinkle of the song-sparrow, 

 the better-rounded effort of his gifted cousin, the 

 white-throat, the hiss of the cowbird these do not 

 exhaust the list of performers, but are they not 

 enough to entitle our river to rank as a river of 

 song ? 



The banks, as banks should, hold treasures. 

 Where the feet of cattle have printed the sand 

 flats, lie pear-shaped eggs, seemingly twice too large 

 for the sandpiper which guards them. When those 

 eggs shall have warmed to life, we may find stilt- 

 legged, downy youngsters, still guarded by the 

 trim, everlastingly nodding mother, who, with all 

 her melodious pleadings and silly curtseyings, knows 

 quite enough to simulate lameness to tempt an in- 

 vader. Helplessly as she may flutter, and aimless 

 as her crippled efforts may appear, they always lead 

 away from the sand-matching young. Pursue her, 

 and the sweet farce will end the instant she con- 

 siders the young safe. 



About cliff-like banks hovers a cloud of martins, 

 forever entering and leaving their clustered tunnels. 

 Do they ever become confused and enter the wrong 

 openings ? It is unlikely. You, unless you were 

 club-confused, might be trusted to find your own 

 house in a row of similar houses. The martins are 

 even more clever, for they never hesitate, look for a 

 number or mark they simply fly straight home 

 and creep in at the one hole in the colander-like 



