THE OOLOGIST. 



11 



Ed different in any respect only darker 

 blue than the female Bluebirds gener- 

 ally are. On letting her go I could 

 hardly tell her from the male bird. 



Whether this has anything to do 

 with the coloring of the eggs or not I 

 don't know, but I do know that the 

 same pair of birds rebuilt the nest in 

 the same stump, laid four blue eggs 

 and raised four blue birds. 



This was the first and only set of 

 albino eggs I ever found; they were the 

 same shape and size of the average 

 Bluebirds' eggs only a pure glossy 

 white. 



R. CA. 

 Wayne Co., Mich. 



An Afternoon with the Birds. 



It is the middle of May when, on a 

 bright and pleasant afternoon I call the 

 great hound near at hand, and leaving 

 the little farmhouse by the roadside, 

 ramble off towards the distant forest. 

 All nature is at her brighest to-day. 

 The fast ripening wheat as it waves in 

 the breeze, the scent of flowers, the dis- 

 tant call of birds, the warm, balmy air, 

 everything is beautiful. 



As I cross the sweet scented meadow 

 which lies between myself and the 

 woods, my dog bounds joyfully ahead 

 barking, and chasing the pretty 

 meadow-larks which he frightens from 

 their nests. I stop to examine and to 

 wonder at the ingenuity displayed in 

 the bird's attempt to conceal its nest 

 from the watchful eye of the crow and 

 jay. How cunningly are the leaves and 

 grass-blades drawn and matted over 

 that hollow in the ground, and how 

 neatly is the interior of the nest lined 

 with the finer grass, to make a soft 

 nesting-place for the four spotted eggs 

 which are soon to burst forth into life 

 and activity. 



But the parent bird is impatient to 

 come back to her nest, so I wander on, 

 down by the pond with the gentle kine 



standing knee deep in it, stopping only 

 to look at the curious nest of the Red- 

 winged Blackbird, swung like a ham- 

 mock between three tall cat-tails grow- 

 ing on the edge of the water; onward I 

 go, and at last leaving the great blazing 

 sun behind, I enter the cool dark 

 woods: 



"the thick roof 

 Of green and stirring branches alive 

 And musical with birds that sing and sport 

 . In wantonness of spirit ; while below 

 The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect 

 Chirps merrily." 



A rabbit springs away from beneath 

 my feet and my dog gives chase, his 

 loud bark growing fainter and fainter 

 as pursuer and pursued disappear in 

 the distance. Over head some crows, 

 disturbed by the noise, take flight, caw- 

 ing hoarsely, and flapping their heavy 

 wings. Presently quiet is restored; my 

 dog returns panting from his unsuccess- 

 ful chase, and I gently reprove him for 

 disturbing Nature in such unseemry 

 fashion. He looks into my face with 

 an intelligent gaze, almost human, shin- 

 ing out his honest brown eyes, as I talk 

 to him, then, as I throw myself down 

 on a mossy bank by the brook, he lies 

 at my feet ready, at a word, to proceed 

 on our way. Everything is still; only 

 the leaves rustle, as the gentle summer 

 wind shakes them in the tree tops. 



As I am resting here, there comes, 

 borne on the wind, the mournful notes 

 of the dove, two long notes, followed 

 by three short ones. How distant it 

 sounds; yet the bird is in that thorn 

 tree, only a short distance off. But its 

 melancholy notes are drowned by the 

 harsh cries of two blue jays, who, una- 

 ware of the presence of human beings, 

 fall to the ground, lighting fiercely. 

 They flutter along scattering the bright 

 blue feathers to the wind, but the 

 hound, before I can stop him, dashes at 

 them, and they fly away. Then another 

 sound breaks the stillness, coming from 

 a little open place among the trees. It 

 is the call of the American Quail: — Bob 



