WHAT I HAVE DONE WITH BIRDS 



was a little dry grass also and the eggs were that exquisite deep 

 blue-green of this species. That was the picture. No wonder 

 Bob hurried for the camera! Of all the forty nests into which 

 we had gazed with reverent wonder that morning, not pendent 

 purse of Oriole, cobweb decorated cup of Vireo, living green arch 

 of Lark or flat bowl of Quail was so beautiful as this. 



Of course it couldn't wait, so I made two exposures to be 

 sure. Then overtures to the Cat -birds began by sprinkling cracker 

 crumbs, of which they are very fond, along the top rail of the 

 fence. The mother bird proved how she got her name by keeping 

 up a feline concert in the thicket. "Me-aw, me-aw, me-aw!" 

 "Me-ow, me-ow, me-ow! 'Arry, 'arry," then insistently, ff Har-Yy, 

 Har-Tyl" 



Making friends with her was a task. The Rubicon was a cir- 

 cle about three yards from her in any direction, and when you 

 crossed it, no matter with what adroitness you made your ap- 

 proach, she was gone. I never got a study of her brooding. It 

 was impossible to take it without separating the bushes and not 

 even after her eggs had quickened could you touch her fence- 

 corner but she would take flight. 



While making these efforts my appreciation of Cat-bird mu- 

 sic doubled and all I ever had of Cat -bird character was lost; so 

 that in these days, the memory of those hours of watching, filled 

 with the exquisite morning and evening song of the Cat-bird fa- 

 ther as he perched in a topmost bough of the old apple-tree, is all 

 that keeps me from destroying every nest I find. 



\He liked a big Rambo closest his location, and from a high 

 twig the mimic copied the notes of every bird of the lease. He 

 could do the Robin's rain-song beautifully. He reproduced the 

 Bobolink of the rod-line, across the road, until he fooled me if he 



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