THE KILLDEER 



young about 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, "What I Have Not Done With Birds." This Killdeer 

 was one of my rank failures. She was a last year's bird and this 

 was her first brooding. She was nervous and foolish. She would 

 suffer the horses to come quite close, but the first glimpse of John 

 would send her a gray streak across the field. I tried to accustom 

 her to a tripod, and she bore that, but when a small camera covered 

 with twigs was placed on it she left her eggs and would not re- 

 turn. 



She was accustomed to the open field and deserted her nest 

 at every device I could think of, and circled above, crying so 

 plaintively my heart failed me and 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 she matures and grows in confidence. She learns to dis- 

 tinguish friends from enemies and unfamiliar objects from dan- 

 gers, so that work about her can be carried on with some degree 

 of assurance, especially after her eggs have quickened. 



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 next found only a little bare 

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

 closely investigating to see if any signs of tragedy could be 

 found my ear caught the sweetest, faintest little silver thread of 

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

 toward the pool and across its bare bank moved the brown and 



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