THB OOLOGIST 



189 



As a "medjum" our little old "0-" 

 is a whale, so I offer an ornithological 

 tale. Away back a dozen or more 

 years ago, a brother collector decided 

 the Crow, had all other birds about 

 backed off their pegs in depositing 

 beautiful series of eggs. Well, Crow 

 eggs are pretty — I'll agree to that 

 much but my choice, is Condor's, Wild 

 Pigeons and such. 



But for Crow eggs the Doc — R. L. 

 Jessee, M. D.) had a sort of a weak- 

 ness — a partiality. Each season be- 

 fore e'en the Bluebirds had come or 

 the first daring Honeybee risked a 

 real hum, the Doctor'd begin to exam- 

 ine the boughs and the Cottonwood 

 crotches for signs of the Crows. 



Some winters the Crows were so 

 thick that perchance they'd outnumber 

 the whole German army in France; 

 We'd locate a flock of a million or so 

 and I'd laugh and say "Well Doc you'll 

 sure have to go, if you get all the eggs 

 those black ladies will lay — they'll 

 keep you O-ologin' both night and day. 



Doc had the right system — 'tis wise 

 to select a series that 'aint so blamed 

 hard to collect; "to get what we want" 

 is the common rule, yet, 'tis wiser by 

 far to "want what we can get." My 

 series of Passenger Pigeons is nil and 

 I'm longing for nice sets of Condor 

 eggs still. 



But Doc got his Crow eggs in sets 

 four to six, recording life hist'ries 

 from "caw-caws" to chicks; But the 

 long rows of Crow eggs enhancing his 

 case reveals but a fractional part of 

 the chase; Each set has its romance — 

 a tale of a trip — of torn pants or bark- 

 ed shins from an unlucky slip — or 

 caught in the arms of an April snow 

 storm — of incidents, accidents, events 

 multiform. 



But the beautiful Crow eggs my 

 story's about are not round Doc's of- 

 fice, within or without; Like young 

 lives that perish 'ere scarcely begun, 



those beautiful eggs lost "their place 

 in the sun..' 



'Twas an April day morning our 

 story begins with soft balmy breezes 

 and opening catkins; We hiked for the 

 timber along the Ambraw — It's really 

 "Embarrass" but that's "Frich ye 

 knaw." 



A Red-tailed Hawk screamed as we 

 entered the wood; Our hearts beat 

 some faster as bird crank's hearts 

 should; A Woodpecker pounded on 

 slippery elm and old Mother Nature 

 was sure at the helm; A Wood Thrush 

 was antheming "do-rae-me-do" but 

 all that Doc heard was the call of the 

 Crow; 



He soon had located a nest in a 

 tree; the female flew off and I heard 

 him "Whoop-pee". 'Twas the first 

 for the year, exciting the Doc, who 

 shinned up the tree without shedding 

 his frock. He always was dressed in 

 a dignified way with a long English 

 coat of the style Cutaway. The Crow 

 nest was only twelve feet from the 

 ground and the eggs quite the prettiest 

 that Doc had e'er found. He scooped the 

 six beauties up into his hand; then for 

 the first time wondered how he could 

 land. He couldn't come down with the 

 eggs in his mitt; His basket forgotten 

 was no benefit; He thought of the time 

 when he was a kid, how with mouth- 

 ful of eggs he could easily skid, to 

 the ground so expertly and ne'er crack 

 a shell; but on this past picture he 

 could not long dwell. 



It wasn't a parallel case he well 

 knew; Four Robin's would go in, but 

 six Crow eggs — oh whew; He could 

 not descend by the use of one arm; 

 if he tried it, to him or the eggs would 

 come harm. His arms now were 

 grown tired — alas and alack; he could 

 not reach up now to put the eggs 

 back. What a pickle to be in; it was 

 getting Doc's goat, 'till he thought of 

 that pocket in the tail of his coat. 



