THE MOURNING DOVE 



whole species rises. It is things like these, just little things, which 

 set nature-students wondering. Had these Doves built their usual 

 structure, ornithologists would say it was instinctive. When they 

 leave all traces of the building of their species, and fashion a com- 

 pact nest of unaccustomed material, resembling in color 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 rest of their family, but could detect no trait unusual 

 to 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 just 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 every specification relating to him as 

 to constancy and tenderness. He stuff ed his brooding mate until 

 she was compelled to refuse more food, and 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 did love to watch and study them. I was 

 waiting until brooding had progressed a week or so before be- 

 ginning a series of pictures of them, when Bob met my carriage 

 with a long face. 



"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 



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