12 



THE OOLOGIST 



But I guess from the subject which 

 the title of this article would indicate. 

 As I sit at my study window listening 

 to the clear notes of a Meadowlark in 

 the rain-drenched grass of an adjoin- 

 ing field, I am carried back in fancy 

 to a certain sunny morning of spring: 



Today we shall go afield — but 

 where? To the east the mountain 

 peaks seem to beacon to us to come 

 and explore their well clothed flanks. 

 But no, the day promises to be a warm 

 one, and scaling mountain peaks under 

 a broiling sun is not pure unallowed 

 pleasure. Let us turn rather to the 

 willow-bottoms, where the going is not 

 so difficult. We shall probably find 

 only common birds there, but this will 

 be made up for by their abundance, 

 both as to varieties and as to individ- 

 uals. 



A short car ride, and we stride along 

 at a brisk pace down the pass toward 

 the river. The latter at that time of 

 the year is but a shallow stream, three 

 or four feet deep and scarce twenty 

 feet wide, fringed with willows and 

 tule-clumps and sometimes a few tall 

 cottonwoods and poplars. To the 

 south rise the foothills, a thousand 

 feet or so in elevation, sloping down 

 to the river in a series of brush 

 covered ridges. The line betwen wil- 

 lows and sage-brush is marked by a 

 belt of giant live oaks. 



Just before we reach the willows 

 the road forks. As we stand in mo- 

 mentary indecision the sudden whirr 

 of a startled Hummingbird sounds 

 nearby. We turn about, and soon spy 

 the nest saddled on a low sage branch, 

 formed of the softest down and 

 feathers. The two small eggs are quite 

 dark and we know that incubation is 

 advanced, so make no move to disturb 

 them. The little mother is nervously 

 darting about, and finally gets up 

 enough courage to settle down in the 

 nest before we go. 



A little farther down the road stands 

 a hugh live-oak, dividing into two 

 forks a few feet from the ground. In 

 one of these we know there is a large 

 cavity that has yielded many a set in 

 past two years. We scramble up and 

 peer into the openings. Mrs. Barn 

 Owl hisses in our face and snaps her 

 beak in a most terrifying manner. In 

 voluntarily we duck down, and she 

 flaps out clumsily, disclosing to viev/ 

 a nice set of six large white eggs, 

 somewhat stained and discolored, but 

 withal very welcome. This is a good 

 start, and we pack up our plunder 

 with roseate visions of more good 

 things to come. 



The last oak before the bridge would 

 have passed up had not a tell-tale 

 feather protruding from that knot 

 hole caught our eye. We clamber out 

 along the branch underneath, and 

 arise to insert a cautious flnger in 

 the orflce. A sharp peck causes us 

 to withdraw said digit hurriedly. No 

 less hurried is the exit of mamma 

 House-Wren, followed in rapid suc- 

 cession by a family of fluffy young- 

 sters ; one-two-three-four-five-six we 

 lose count. Surely the whole tree is 

 hollow and full of young wrens. We 

 regain the ground and watch for a few 

 moments the awkward efforts of the 

 little fellows. But we must be getting 

 on. 



As we reach the clear "0-ka-lee" of 

 the Red-wing sounds from a tule 

 patch. The water is but knee-deep, 

 and we wade from clump to clump 

 examining the swaying baskets of 

 dried weeds, each with its quota of 

 three or four scrawled blue eggs. One 

 set interests us particularly, it con- 

 tains a runt no larger than a Wren's 

 egg, and it goes into our box in spite 

 of the rightful owner's strong-voiced 

 protest. 



We climb up the opposite bank, and 

 a silent figue slips from a bunch of 



