24 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



Previous to this, my first experience of Springtime in the country, 

 bird life was quite unknown to me. I admit, too, a feeling somewhat 

 of irritation at the frequent allusions to birds made by poets, prose 

 writers, spring enthusiasts, etc. But as so frequently happens, that 

 which one condemns in another comes sooner or later to dominate over 

 him, and I find myself today fairly fascinated by the birds. Bird mag- 

 azines, Audubon and even bird poets are eagerly sought, and now, for 

 the first time, understood. Shelly's "Sky Lark" unfolded a whole 

 world of meaning as I read it whilst listening to the vesper strain of 

 the little Song Sparrow; I too echoed: — 



Teach me half the gladness, 

 That thy heart must know, 

 Such harmonious madness 



From my lips would flow, 

 That the world would listen then 

 As I am listening now. 



The other day I watched a duel unto death between two Chipping 

 Sparrows. For some time the issue seemed doubtful and either 

 might have sought safety in flight; but the Spartan-mother war cry — 

 Return with your shield or upon it — was evidently the spirit actuating 

 the combatants. 



A dexterous peck at the eye gave advantage to the stronger and the 

 injured bird fell to the ground; the ensuing scene was simply murder. 

 O, the joy of triumph, satiated revenge! Why, the spirit of Marius 

 seemed palpitating in that little hate-embodiment as he pecked and 

 pecked, and chirped and pecked, and dragged his victim and shook 

 him even long after life had, at least apparently, departed from the 

 poor tortured little form. 



Another bird which from a neighboring tree had evidently watched 

 the fight now fluttered down to the scene. He or she, more probably 

 the latter, perched on a stone nearby and intently watched the struggle, 

 whether with looks expressive of admiration for victor or secret lament 

 for victim, I could not tell. Perhaps my own feelings protruding 

 themselves through my field glasses perceived in her the latter; certain 

 it is she did not join the triumph song, but just as certain it is that she 

 flew away under the voluble protection of her triumphant lord and 

 master. And there lay the dead Chippy, his chestnut head dyed crim- 

 son now and his poor bleeding eye closed forever; and there, right 

 before my eyes, on this glorious spring day, had been enacted just 

 another expression of that tragedy old as the world. 



A very demure Robin has her nest in a locust tree near my window. 

 She is evidently a staid old matron, secure in a nest that proved faith- 



