168 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



would have laughed in their sleeves had they 

 known what we were hunting for back in the 

 brush ! The nest was about the size of a chilicothe 

 pod, and so covered with lichen that it looked just 

 like a knot on the tree. 



Around the blossoming bush the air fairly vi- 

 brated with hummers, darting up into the sky, 

 shooting down and chasing each other pell mell 

 sometimes almost into my face. As I sat by 

 the bush one day, a handsome male went around 

 with upraised throat, poking his bill up the red 

 fuchsia-like tubes. Another one was flying around 

 inside the bush, and I edged nearer to see. The 

 sun shone in, whitening the twigs, and as the bird 

 whirred about with a soft burring sound, I caught 

 gleams of red, gold, and green from his gorget, 

 and could see the tiny bird rest his wee feet on a 

 twig to reach up to a blossom. Then he hummed 

 what sounded more like a love song than anything 

 I had ever heard from a hummingbird. He 

 seemed so much more like a real bird than any of 

 his brothers that I felt attracted to him. 



One morning a little German girl, in a red 

 pinafore, and with hair flying, came riding down 

 the sand stream toward my bush. Her colt reared 

 and pranced, but she sat as firmly as if she had 

 been a small centaur. It was a holiday, and she 

 was staking out her horses to graze, making gala- 

 day work of it. She had one horse down by the 

 little oak already, and springing off the one she 



