The Bird to the Bird -lover 



By CHRESWELL J. HUNT 



A FRIEND said to me the other day: " I don't see what you can find 

 in the woods and fields to warrant spending so much time there." 

 I said, "Birds!" but he seemed no more enlightened than before. 

 What was there in a bird worth a long tramp simply to look at it? What, 

 indeed ! 



I did not attempt to explain. One cannot put into words the pleasure 

 he feels at meeting a new bird — new to him. We would gladly walk miles 

 to make a new bird-friend, but we cannot explain why to every one's satis- 

 faction. Yes, "All for the sake of seeing a little bird!" One must feel 

 this enthusiasm to understand why. A bird is quite a different thing to a 

 bird-lover than to a disinterested person. 



It is no doubt the happening of the unexpected that goes as far as any- 

 thing toward keeping up our enthusiasm when afield. We are always see- 

 ing something new, something we least expect to see. We may take the 

 same walk every day in the year, yet how many times will it be the same? 

 There is always something different. We always carry back with us some- 

 thing new. 



I have often skirted a certain mill-pond in the early morning 1 have 

 stood and watched the Chimney Swifts taking their morning dip, skim- 

 ming low over the water and now then dipping one wing beneath the 

 surface with a very audible "slap." Then a Kingfisher drops into the 

 water from an overhanging branch, and, rising again, bears away his prize 

 with a loud clatter. 



On another morning three Great Blue Herons waded slowly in the 

 quiet water, making not the slightest ripple. Every little while one would 

 dart his head beneath the surface, bring forth a fish and devour it. 



And again two male Red-winged Blackbirds, with angry notes, plunged 

 into the water and fought, as it seemed, for life. Now one would be im- 

 mersed, now the other, until at last they parted and one beat a hasty 

 retreat. All this while, the cause of the fight, a brown female, clinging to 

 a near-by cat's-tail stalk, scolded and watched the combat, at last to fly away 

 with the victor. 



Still another trip was rewarded by a single White Heron, which stood 

 and preened his feathers on a stone in the center of the pond. 



I have walked across the meadows in late May, just as the last gleam of 

 the sunset was fading in the west and night had all but settled down, and 

 have listened to the flight song of the Indigo Bunting as he, all but hidden 

 by the darkness, mounted high into the air pouring forth his lisping song. 



On one of those early summer nights, ere the insect choruses which 

 enliven the nights of July and August had gotten their instruments into 



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