2 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



calling at the more distant nests on the way. 

 After dinner I would take my camp-stool and 

 stroll through the oaks at the head of the valley, 

 for a quiet study of the nearer nests. Then once 

 more my horse would be brought up for me to 

 take a run before sunset ; and at night I would 

 identify my new birds and write up the notes 

 of the day. What more could observer crave? 

 The world was mine. I never spent a happier 

 spring. The freedom and novelty of ranch life 

 and the exhilaration of days spent in the saddle 

 gave added zest to the delights of a new fauna. 

 In my small valley circuit of a mile and a half, 

 I made the acquaintance of about seventy-five 

 birds, and without resort to the gun was able to 

 name fifty-six of them. 



My saddle horse, a white bronco who went by 

 the musical name of Canello, had been broken by 

 a Mexican whose cruelty had tamed the wild blood 

 in his veins and left him with a fear of all swar- 

 thy skins. Now he could be ridden bareback by 

 the little girls, with only a rope noose around his 

 nose, and was warranted to stand still before a 

 flock of birds so long as there was grass to eat. 

 He was to be relied on as a horse of ripe experi- 

 ence and mature judgment in matters of local 

 danger. No power of bit or spur could induce 

 him to set foot upon a piece of ' boggy land,' and 

 to give me confidence one of the ranchman's sons 

 said, " Wherever I ? ve killed a rattlesnake from 



