350 



THE OOLOGIST 



treasures, so unlike the eggs of any 

 other North American sparrow. 



I believe this is a record for Connec- 

 ticut, if not you wise ones tell us 

 about it. It is my rarest find for the 

 season. P. G. Howes. 



turtles. After keeping it awhile it pre- 

 sented me with a set of nine eggs. 



R. B. Simpson. 

 Warren, Pa. 



Some Erie, Pa., Notes. 



While visiting at Erie this past 

 spring (1911) I spent some time each 

 day on May 31, June 1st and 2d on the 

 "Peninsula." 



The lower part of the "Peninsula" 

 had been swept by fire last fall and 

 the cover rather open for land birds 

 but still they seemed to be plenty. 



It was the water birds that interest- 

 ed me most and I spent most of my 

 time looking them up. Long-billed 

 Marsh Wrens were breeding plentiful- 

 ly as were also the Red-winged Black- 

 birds. I flushed an occasional Least 

 Bittern but was too early for nests. 



At a small pond lined with cat-tails 

 I flushed a female Mallard several 

 times but could find no trace of young. 

 About the marshy head of a small 

 pond I flushed a Wilson's Snipe that 

 persisted in coming back but I could 

 find neither eggs or young and next 

 day could not again find the bird. 



There was a pair of Piping Plover 

 on the outside beach and I got busy 

 and found the nest, mention of which 

 has already appeared in The Oologist. 

 There were several pair of Kildeer 

 about. Spotted Sandpipers were very 

 common and I saw several each of 

 Turnstone and Dunlin in full dress. 

 Also several each of Semip. Plover 

 and Semip. Sandpiper. 



There was a flock of 15 or 20 Scaup 

 Ducks about the bay. I picked up a 

 turtle that was strange to me and 

 took it along. Afterwards I found it 

 to be a Blanding's Turtle, a rather 

 rare thing in this state in the way of 



The Season's Opening. 



When February comes with roar — 

 we know that winter's almost o'er — all 

 through the housed up days we've 

 read — and evenings 'till we went to 

 bed — all Bird books on our shelves 

 and then — we read them everyone 

 again — 



And oh, the pleasure we derived — 

 in old experiences revived — We read 

 of how in Rawson's days — he found 

 and wrote about Hawk's ways— read 

 C. P. Posson's squibs and notes — 

 laughed at his funny anecdotes — saw 

 pictures of the younger set — enrolled 

 now in Fame's alphabet — saw our 

 Oologist hang on — while rivals died 

 soon after born — learned Lattin's 

 Short's and Barnes' moods — their 

 trials and vicissitudes — read every 

 magazine and book — about eggs found 

 and pictures "took" — We sharpened 

 hatchet, irons and drill — and tried to 

 wait with patience 'till — the birds 

 came back and made their nests — and 

 lulled the longing in our breasts. 



Then when March winds begin to 

 howl — we hie us forth to find an Owl 

 — the Great Horned Owl we hunt with 

 zest — we're tickled when we find his 

 nest — and when we shin up and the 

 cold — air whistles through our 

 breeches old — we feel that we are sure 

 repaid — to find two big round eggs 

 she's layed — we hustle home like all 

 egg fools — and dig around for blowing 

 tools — but we don't feel quite safe as 

 yet — until we see in cabinet — the label 

 with 375 — and then we settle down 

 and strive — to act as we think smart 

 men should — and stay at home 'till 

 weather's good. — 



But oh, those long cold lonesome 



