The OoLOGiST. 



VOL XII. NO. 8 



ALBION, N. Y., AUGUST, 1895. 



Whole No. 118 



Dragging for Bobolinks. 



Four of the brightest of the mornings 

 of my bright days of collecting this sea- 

 son were spent in dragging for nests of 

 Bobolinks, and other things. 



Not one-tenth of humanity knows, 

 adequately, the beauty of nature; and 

 not one-tenth of that tenth knows, ap- 

 preciatively, the beauty of the morning. 

 The sense of this morning beauty gives 

 to collecting, half its joy. 



I rise at dawn 3:30 a. m., don an old 

 suit and older rubber boots, seize camera, 

 collecting box and coil of slender rope, 

 and start afield. The tiny beads of dew 

 give added brightness to the prairie 

 flowers. The whole blossom world 

 takes on a more radiant beauty when 

 heavily bedewed and touched with 

 morning light; but most of all the roses 

 — the many-tinted and abundant prai- 

 rie roses. The morning newness trans- 

 forms the very sounds I hear. Many a 

 rollicking Kingbird is teasing his mate 

 with a world of fun in his rattling 

 notes; the Grasshopper Sparrows rise 

 from under my feet and draw long their 

 z-z-z-t-ing notes a'balance on the dead 

 tops of golden-rods, and far away and 

 down in the meadows trickles and tink- 

 les a note as effervescent as the King- 

 bird's, but how clear, brilliant, limpid; 

 how characteristic of the Bobolink's 

 watery haunts. And now I stand on 

 the hill-crest, and there below me lies, 

 deep among the seamed hills, the long 

 crescent meadow, its right arm buried 

 in the fold of the hillsides;its left reach- 

 ing far out to touch the lake that lies 

 laughing oak-girt, a mile and a half 

 away. Beyond the meadow, many a 

 soft, long shadow rises and creeps up 

 from the grass-line along the I'avines to 

 the hillcrests; and the first promise of 

 sun-glow touches below me, weed-copse 



and plat of cat tail fag, and long 

 stretches of soft grass, not quite knee- 

 high. Running exhilarated down the 

 sloiJe, I am soon crushing the velvety 

 sphagnum beneath my feet. The dew- 

 gemmed grass soon drenches me, but 

 what of that; are there not unmeasured 

 possibilities in that same wide expanse 

 of grass? 



One end of the rope is tightly fasten- 

 ed to a slender bunch of" grass (whence 

 a stout pull may easily dislodge it). I 

 set about uncoiling it. A brown bird 

 flutters up before me, and at my feet, 

 embowered in a slight grass nest that 

 crests a bog, nestles a new-fledged Song 

 Sparrow, while beside it lies the sempi- 

 terral Cowbird's egg! How eagerly I 

 beat the first circle drinking in great 

 draughts of morning air! But as I 

 close the circle, loose my line, tie again, 

 and circle again, and yet again, my ar- 

 dor begins to damjpen though, many a 

 male Bobolink floats and flutters near, 

 laughing at me. But the line of circles 

 has begun to reach out well into the 

 meadow. No birds rise but many new 

 beauties lie at my feet. Great carpets 

 of violets spread before me, tiny white 

 moccasins lift their delicate heads 

 above the sphagnum; the snow-white 

 spikes and the glossy dark-green spatu- 

 late leaves of the brook-weed give 

 depth and richness to the floral show; 

 and there are numberless tiny white 

 asterisks and other star-flowers whose 

 common places and technicalities the 

 botanist only knows. Though not a 

 botanist, observe the flowers I tnusu; for 

 any careless step, taken while the eye 

 eagerly follows the line, sends one leg 

 plunging down into unmeasured depths 

 of cold, black mire. Just as I rise, rue- 

 fully, from such a plight, a female Bob- 

 olink bolts up from the grass, half way 

 along the line, clutches a blacie of grass,. 



