14 



THE OOLOGIST 



nettles. We find what was expected, 

 a Song-Sparrow's nest, and as the 

 eggs are of the usual type, we pass 

 them up. 



We are forced to go slowly through 

 the heavy growth of willow, for there 

 are many half-buried stumps and 

 tough creepers to catch the feet of the 

 unwary and haste is met with a sting- 

 ing rebuke from tall nettles and sharp- 

 thorned vines. 



A suspicious bulkiness between the 

 trunk of that old willow snag and its 

 attendant vines attracts us. A little 

 closer and we can make out a dark 

 tail projecting over the side of a fair- 

 sized nest. The occupant spies us at 

 the same time and flies away to sum- 

 mon her mate with angry outcries. 

 Our eyes are soon gladdened by the 

 sight of four handsome greenish eggs 

 lying on a background of interlaced 

 rootlets. The California Jay is a 

 better nest-builder than the exterior 

 of his home would indicate, for the 

 lining is often a model of skillful 

 basketry. Jays are common here, but 

 the eggs are not so much so. We have 

 a friend in mind who will welcome 

 this set, so into our box it goes while 

 we jot down necessary details for the 

 data. 



We are rudely interrupted by a 

 smarting pain at the wrists and down 

 our backs, which coupled with a 

 strong smell of formic acid, notified 

 us of the attack of those large red 

 wood ants over half an inch in length 

 that infested the rotted punky stubs. 

 It required some contortionistic effort, 

 aided by sulphurous language to dis- 

 lodge the pests. 



But these minor troubles are soon 

 forgotten in the riot of discoveries we 

 make now. Hanging on a level with- 

 out eyes is the long intricately con- 

 structed pouch of a Bush-tit, adorned 

 with a myriad of tiny yellow blossoms, 

 and from beneath a nearby log bursts 



a Valley Quail, gamest of our game 

 birds, disclosing a whole nest full of 

 treasures. But hands off, quail's eggs 

 are forbidden except by special per- 

 mit and we have no need of the Bush- 

 tit's, so we turn away. Our forbear- 

 ance is soon rewarded by the finding 

 of another Hummingbird's nest, a 

 Black-chinned this time. 



It is placed some twenty feet up at 

 the end of a long slim cottonwood 

 branch, and will require some skill to 

 secure. From a point well up the 

 trunk, we are able to see its contents, 

 two small eggs with pinkish glow that 

 is assurance of their freshness. With 

 a length of rope we tie the limb se- 

 curely to the one above it, and set to 

 work with one hand to saw, steady- 

 ing the limb with the other. The job 

 is soon finished, and throwing down 

 the saw we pull in the limb ever so 

 carefully. The nest is almost within 

 our reach when the branch gets out 

 of balance, turning over in spite of 

 our efforts and dashing the frail shells 

 to the ground. We roundly upbraid 

 ourselves for such carelessness, and 

 then descend to gaze ruefully at the 

 ruin we have created. 



The sun directly overhead now 

 warns us that it is noon, so we pick 

 out a shady spot near the river and 

 spread out our lunch. Three Swal- 

 lows, handsome white-bellied fellows 

 with steel-blue backs, skim over the 

 surface of the water; and dozens of 

 other species drink and bathe at its 

 edge. 



The drumming of a Flicker arouses 

 us from revery, and we pause in the 

 midst of a bite of sandwich to locate 

 him. There he is, halfway up a slant- 

 ing cottonwood stub, pounding away 

 right merrily. There are others that 

 do not appreciate his efforts. From a 

 hitherto unnoticed orfice in the trunk 

 a smaller woodpecker, identified by 

 his barred back and dingy forehead 



