58 



THE 00L03IST. 



succeed, and reaching the nest, passing 

 my linger in, I discover 4 eggs. 



This is all; my story is told, and only 

 those of you who are earnest students 

 can imagine or have realized the feeling 

 I had, in this my tirst find of the Water 

 Ouzel. 



And thus it is (as we turn over page 

 after page of our note book, each tell- 

 ing a story in connection with our 

 facts,) that we spend so many pleasant 

 winter evenings, and long again for the 

 spring and summer day, when the 

 feathered warblers will again make 

 their home with us, and give to us new 

 stores of valuable information. 



Wishing yon all a prosperous new 

 year, I remain 



Dr. A. G. Prill, 

 Sweet Home, Oregon. 



An Ornithological Paradise. 



May 10, 1890 presented to my view as 

 I opened my bedroom window, an 

 almost matchless morning. A cloud- 

 less sky into which the sun was just 

 gliding, a gentle . breeze stirring the 

 maple leaves, and the peculiar fresh- 

 ness that spring alone can offer. A 

 splendid day for the woods, so after a 

 hasty breakfast I take my gun, car- 

 tridges and fish creel and step aci'oss 

 the road to hitch up the horse. Even 

 this early my luck begins for in a small 

 white birch I espy a fine male Cape 

 May Warbler; rather risky to shoot in 

 the city but the rarity of the bird seems 

 to warrant it so a light load is his des- 

 truction. In the apple trees around 

 the barn are two Tennessee Warblers 

 but these are left unharmed. 



After a drive of two miles in the 

 slushy mud of the city streets I at last 

 emerge into the country and far ahead 

 view my destination, a large clump of 

 pines. Near a farm house I see a pair 

 of Orchard Orioles, the male warbling 

 his pretty song; farther along three 

 brilliant Scarlet Tanagers are indulg- 



ing in a free fight over an olive colored 

 maiden while a Red-bellied Nuthatch 

 toots away in applause. In a few 

 moments I am hitching securely to a 

 small tamar;ick and am just ready to 

 start when I notice a female Yellow 

 Warbler fly into a clump of bushes 

 fifty yards away. Even at thatdistance 

 something peculiar in her movements 

 arrested my attention and approaching 

 nearer I am delighted to see that it is a 

 male Wilson's Black-capped Warbler. 

 I notice that his movements are rather 

 deliberate and that he is shy, but fear- 

 ing an escape I suspend further inves- 

 tigation and shoot him at once. In the 

 bushes the Golden-winged Warblers 

 are everwhere uttering a harsh "c/je 

 tzay tzay tzay" while the common birds 

 fairly fill the air with their melody. In 

 all this medley of sound I distinguish a 

 new song proceeding from the lower 

 branch of a young elm; my note book 

 gives the following version: "A. clear 

 sweet song, exquisitely modulated, 

 resembling the syllables, chera che 

 chera che che che'" The little perform- 

 er is between me and the sun so no 

 alternative is given to the death of the 

 songster; somewhat to my surprise I 

 find I have secured a male Maryland 

 Yellow-throat. 



Then comes the pines. How delight- 

 ful they are! Pushing through a pro- 

 tecting barrier of raspberry vines I 

 stand within the grand cathedral of 

 Nature. A dim semi-twilight pervades 

 the place through which lofty colnmns 

 fade away into distance. A solemn 

 hush in the air, even the footsteps are 

 deadened by the soft carpet of needles . 

 Lest all might seem bare and desolate a 

 multitude of vines twine delicate forms 

 about the feet. Lest all might seem 

 lifeless hundreds of voices of Nature 

 sing a beautiful hymn of praise. Here 

 the Ovenbiid supplicates with his meth- 

 odical chant, "teach me teach me;" 

 here the Hermit Thrush rolls forth his 

 grand and soul stiring hymn; here the 



