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 



