THE MOURNING DOVE 



The young were not so near ready to fly as Bob had im- 

 agined. That day we photographed them in their nest, which 

 was typical, the merest little handful of twigs imaginable. They 

 could scarcely cling to it and a heavy wind would have wrecked 

 it quite. Two days later we found them sitting side by side and 

 made a study of them. I very nearly said we induced them to 

 look characteristic, but come to think of it, they would look that 

 way in any event, and we neither could cause nor prevent it. In 

 my experience a Dove is always a Dove. If I should see one in- 

 volved in an affair of honor with any other bird or pulling feath- 

 ers from his mate I should think he had eaten wild parsnip-seed 

 and gone crazy. 



As we worked about these nestlings from away back in the 

 deep cool forest came continuously the mournful "A'gh, coo, coo, 

 coo," of the old Doves. No wonder early ornithologists thought 

 fitting to name them Mourning Doves. The same idea has be- 

 come so ingrained with us that it is a protection to them. Even 

 careless children respect the supposed grief of Doves, as they 

 would that of humans. 



As a matter of fact there are no happier birds. They emerge 

 in pairs, grow up close as they can keep together all day and 

 crowd tight against each other at night. With them there is no 

 eager unrest and search for a mate. Excepting while the fe- 

 male broods, a circle of three yards would include both of them 

 three-fourths of the time, even in flight. Often on wing I have 

 seen a male Dove forge ahead a little too far and turning cut a 

 circle around his mate and come up closer to her. They are of 

 such quiet disposition and inconspicuous coloring that they es- 

 cape many of the dangers which brilliant, self-assertive birds call 

 upon themselves. 



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