WHAT I HAVE DONE WITH BIRDS 
opening and the birds had been forced to build low for shelter 
and later than ever before. Half these Larks had lost their be- 
lated broods in the garnering of the harvest and now they hung 
disconsolate above the shorn fields uttering querulous cries. Be- 
neath them restless Shrikes gathered grasshoppers for half- 
fledged broods. On the cross-rails the Song Sparrows piped 
bravely, and from fence-corner saplings the Goldfinches ques- 
tioned of every passer, "See me?" 
To the south a sinuous line of giant sycamore, tulip, ash, 
maple and elm trees and the lapping purl of water marked the 
river near at hand, while the rattle of my Kingfishers and the 
splash of wallowing carp told the story of affairs of importance 
going on there as well as in the fields. Though it was mid-after- 
noon the prickly heat held unabating. The patch of red backs 
under the oak at Stanley's line fence meant that the herd had 
been driven from grazing, and bunched together, were lazily 
chewing their cuds and fighting flies. A flock of Cow-birds cir- 
cled over and about them, snatching up insects their stamping 
feet drove from the grass or boldly foraging on their glossy 
backs. 
Patience picked his way slowly and each foot fell with a soft, 
rhythmic pat that raised a small cloud of dust. The lines swung 
loosely from my fingers as I sat on the edge of the seat and with 
roving eyes searched for "studies," from my Vultures from over 
in the Limberlost, hanging a mere speck in the sky, to the hare 
scudding across the stubble or the winnowing of grasses that told 
of a snake sliding down to the river. 
At Stanley's Bend, Patience neighed sharply, pricked up his 
ears and broke into a swinging trot. The beast found intelligence 
and voice to show its anxiety to reach Bob; for Bob meant to him 
180 
