THE OOLOGIST 



351 



days — of later March when every 

 phase — of springtime promise disap- 

 pears — and snow and sleet confirms 

 our fears — But March goes past like 

 other years — and finally we hear Kill- 

 deers — Tis then we buckle armor on 

 — and whistle tunes from Mendellsohn 

 — we hie us forth on lengthy walks — 

 in search of nests of Red-tailed Hawks 

 — no trees too high, we boast and 

 scoff — we walk our blamed legs nearly 

 off — we sneak and creep down forest 

 aisles — (we happy carefree imbeciles) 

 — and crane our necks with eyes aloft 

 — and strain our muscles winter soft 

 — we list with ear drums taut it seems 

 — for "Buteo borealis" screams — at 

 last we see A NEST, A NEST — we 

 scramble at our very best — we see the 

 great height, grind our teeth — and but 

 for fresh sticks underneath — we'd turn 

 away with "sour grapes" sneer — and 

 say "an old nest, built last year" — 

 but zounds, we'd never be content — 

 we'd feel small as a copper cent — to 

 turn away with just a glance — from 

 such propitious looking chance — we 

 long to scale the Hawk environs — and 

 grasp at last our climbing irons — we 

 buckle all the straps up tight — and 

 pause to scan the nest's great height 

 — our eyes run up the trunk toward 

 sky — Gee Willikens but it is high — 

 how minutes now will seem like hours 

 — until that set of eggs is ours — we 

 sink the spurs into the bark — the first 

 ten feet, oh just a lark — fifteen feet 

 more and oh that tired — exhausted 

 feel, but now inspired — with visions 

 of a set of four — we buckle to our task 

 once more — we settle in a crotch to 

 rest — and gaze again up at the nest — 

 What hidden secret it beguiles — us 

 to climb up these miles and miles? — 

 what magnet is it draws and becks — 

 and causes us to risk our necks — on 

 rough and scraggly shell bark roads? 

 —Pride of possession 'tis that goads — 



and we are proud of every set — for 

 Red-tail's eggs are hard to get — so 

 dog-goned hard that I won't trade — 

 my Red-tail's eggs to man or maid — 

 'twas forty, fifty, sixty feet — at eighty 

 odd, the nest I greet — I lift my hand 

 and oh the thrill — Great Ceasar, I can 

 feel it still — Yes, eggs, but sad heart, 

 only one — now I must climb this son 

 of a gun — of a tree again to get those 

 eggs — oh my poor weary skinned up 

 legs — 



March 29th found us again — beneath 

 the Buteo's lofty den — 337 our data 

 reads — nest composed of sticks and 

 weeds — a lining of corn husks and 

 leaves — with binder twine from old 

 oats sheaves — nest was a good six 

 feet around — placed eighty-seven feet 

 from the ground — Set mark, one three, 

 a beauty set — I 'aint done lookin' at 

 'em yet — 



Next month if Editor Barnes is kind 

 — I'll tell you of my Buzzard find. 



Isaac E. Hess. 

 Philo, Illinois. 



Personal Notes. 



We recently made a 300 mile auto- 

 mobile trip in the counties lying south 

 and southwest of Lacon in the course 

 of which we met, among others, Dr. 

 W. S. Strode of Lewistown, 111., who 

 in years past was one of the most ac- 

 tive of Illinois' Ornithological stu- 

 dents. We spent a pleasant half hour 

 with the doctor and looked over some 

 of his specimens. 



Of late years he tells us that he has 

 not paid much attention to Oology, 

 but has done considerable collecting 

 and making of bird skins, of which he 

 has a large local representation, as 

 well as one of the most complete col- 

 lections of fresh water mussel shells 

 that we have ever seen. 



The Doctor promised us some copy 

 for The Oologist in the near future, 



