56 THE NIDOLOGIST 
would endeavor to hide from the female’s 
observation behind a stump, but the male 
on the high knoll adjoining would invari- 
ably give my whereabouts away. Finally 
I gave itup in despair, One evening when 
driving home the cows an idea suddenly 
- passed through my head. Thinks I, “now 
if I drive the cows through that patch of 
stumps they may scare the old bird trom 
her nest and she will beso intent on watch- 
ing them as not to observe me.’’ No sooner 
said than done, and I started the cows 
stumpward. They scattered well in pass- 
ing over the patch, and soon I heard the 
alarm note of my deceitful friend. Look- 
ing in the direction whence came the 
sound I saw the Killdeer flying again ana 
again at the cow’s head. She soon saw 
me, however, and was off, but too late, for 
going to where the cow was when attacked 
I had no difficulty in finding her pretty set 
of four eggs near the base of an old well 
rotted stump. ‘‘There’s schemes in all 
trades but ours,’’ but this time my scheme 
proved a practical and successful one. 
: W. E. SNYDER. 
Beaver Dam, Wis. 
———————== @ —_ __—_ 
Sunset in Early Summer. 
The farm on which I live is situated on 
the outskirts of a country village with a 
population of about 3,500 inhabitants. 
The town borders on the Connecticut 
line, in central Massachusetts, about twenty 
miles east of the Connecticut River. The 
house is built on the top of a steep hill. 
About one hundred and fifty yards north 
of the house is a stripof meadow land, with 
a small pond in the distance; just west of 
the house is another meadow with a brook 
running through it. On the east side is a 
small orchard, and beyond that, a knoll, 
the sides of which are covered with sweet 
ferns, while'‘on the top are a few yellow 
pines. A few rods south of the house are 
two more knolls, separated by a deep gully. 
The first one is covered with small brush, 
while the second is partly covered with 
pines. 
Many times in early summer I have sat 
in a chair in my back yard, when the fiery 
orb was setting in the west, and listened to 
the chorus sung by the birds in honor of 
the departing day. In the pines the Warb- 
lers and Ovenbirds are singing their best 
love songs. From the meadow comes the 
clear whistle of the Meadowlark and the 
rollicking song of the Bobolink, interspersed 
with the plaintive ‘‘peet-tweet, peet-tweet’’ 
of the Spotted Sandpiper, who is examin- 
ing the bed of the brook in search of his 
evening meal. 
In the orchard is heard the ‘‘chick-a- 
dee-dee” of the Black-capped Titmouse 
and the ‘‘rat-a-tat-tat’’ of the Downy 
Woodpecker, who has a bill as long as any 
milliner’s, and thought he would call and 
see if Mr. Wormis at home. On the knoll 
back of the house I hear the sweet song of 
the Song Sparrow, and at intervals, the 
whistle of the Bob-white. 
In the orchard is heard the evening song 
of the Robin and the sweet but sorrowful 
whistle of the Bluebird. ‘Truly, ‘‘all 
nature is iu tune.’’ In the midst of this 
chorus, there arrives from the south knolls, 
another songster that alights on the top 
branch of a pine in the yard near me. I 
look, and behold—it is the prince of mim- 
ics, the Brown Thrasher, come to bid the 
parting day aw revoir. After eveing me 
closely for a short time, he droops his wings 
and tail, gazes heavenward, and breaks 
forth in a song so loud, clear and sweet 
that those of the other birds are scarcely 
discernible. He intersperses his own 
original song with snatches from those of 
the other singers so much more perfectly 
that they are shamed into silence. After 
singing and mimicking for about half an 
hour, he disappears as suddenly as he 
came, for he has got to be on hand to meet 
his love at their trysting place in a brush 
heap. After he has gone, I can hear the 
clear, bell-like notes of the Wood Thrush 
in the distant woods and the Whip-poor- 
will calling his mate on the east knoll as 
the shroud of night closes over the scene. 
As I arise to enter the house, I hear the 
booming of the Night Hawks, performing 
their aerial evolutions, and the hoarse 
“quawk, quawk’’ of the Night Herons 
wending their way to their feeding grounds | 
at the pond. 
summer. 
This closes a day in early 
WILLIAM H. NaucHron. 
Monson, Mass. : 
oo 
Mr. O. Widmann, whose interesting article on 
the Chimney Swift appears in this number, 
writes: ‘I had a very good chance to watch a 
family of Swifts through an auger hole, which 
allowed me to bring my eye within two feet of 
the nest, without disturbing them.” 
