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Bird - Lore 



When I am outdoors caring for the 

 chickens, I always know when the Pine 

 Siskins are coming, for way off to the 

 northward I hear a whir-r-r and a swish, 

 and then the chattering and murmuring of 

 the rover band as they whirl over the tall 

 house and settle in the alder tops. We 

 come and go from the kitchen or pass 

 along the path beside the alders but noth- 

 ing disturbs them. Some, like Chickadees, 

 hang with their heads downward; others 

 sit upright and pick at the catkins. 

 Suddenly a well-understood signal from 

 the leader sends them off like a gust of 

 dead leaves. Although the birds are 

 never silent, I have not heard anything 

 that I could call a song. Each time that 

 I have an opportunity to listen to them I 

 search for words that will describe the 

 chatter they make. As the band rises up- 

 ward and then swoops downward, I think 

 I hear a grindstone turning rapidly, and 

 the blade held against its surface makes the 

 same shrill, thin sound that the birds 

 utter. 



Not until December 8 last year did I 

 see or hear a Pine Siskin. I suppose the 

 warm sunny days, which continued up 

 to December i, delayed their coming. 

 The first band was small, numbering about 

 fifty. They stayed some time in the alder 

 tops and all the while sent forth their per- 

 sistent twitter. Although I have examined 

 flocks of these birds with a strong glass, I 

 have not seen other species with them. — 

 Mrs. Eugene D. Lindsay. Edmonds, 

 Wash. 



How We Made a Bird-Bath 



A natural cavity in the rock in front of 

 our house, on the coast of Maine, filled 

 with rainwater, was an ideal place for sail- 

 ing small boats. Two generations of 

 children had called this 'The Puddle,' and 

 here we bhssfuUy poked our boats about 

 with sticks, and wet our feet. 



How often we had watched the Robins, 

 Song Sparrows, and 'Wild Canaries' drink- 

 ing there in the days when bird-study was 

 almost unknown and only a few birds 

 were familiar to us. When we grew up and 



graduated from puddle-boats to real 

 boats upon the sea, the birds continued to 

 drink there, but we noticed that the rocky 

 sides were too steep to permit their bath- 

 ing comfortably, although they made 

 desperate efforts to get in all over. 



I conceived the idea of filling the cavity 

 with cement, nearly to the top, where the 

 sides were more slanting, and this scheme 

 my brother carried out. We made a fine, 

 smooth, white floor, about 3 inches from 

 the top, after filling the cavity solidly, 

 pressing it closely into all the cracks and 

 crevices on the sides to prevent the water 

 getting down underneath. Before the 

 surface dried, each member of the family 

 made an impression of the right hand in it, 

 cutting our own initials beside it, and our 

 'date crank' cut in the year. When this 

 bath was flooded to a depth of 2 inches, it 

 was so pretty that we were delighted. 



A Robin was the first bird to christen 

 the pool, and he seemed to appreciate it. 

 Before he bathed, he rushed from one end 

 of the pool to the other, then turned around 

 and rushed back. This he did repeatedly. 

 After he had waded about to his heart's 

 content, he took a good bath. If birds 

 ever sit down, that is what this Robin did, 

 and he was apparently well pleased with 

 himself as he sat half submerged, soaking 

 in the cool water. He took ten minutes for 

 his bath. 



With a garden hose and a broom we keep 

 the pool clean and filled with fresh water. 

 The birds love it and in warm weather 

 flock to it in large numbers. We put in 

 the cement floor in August; sometime in 

 the second week and after that date we 

 counted thirty-three different kinds of 

 birds that bathed in it. There were others 

 that drank only. Of these were a family of 

 American Crossbills. A male and four 

 females would come, dipping and twitter- 

 ing from a nearby piece of woods, alight in 

 a large spruce tree by the pool, assure 

 themselves that there were no prowling 

 cats about, and then drink quickly and be 

 off. It was noticeable that Mr. Crossbill 

 usually drank from a small rock-pool near 

 the large one where his wife and daughters 

 regaled themselves, and that sometimes he 



