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ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY BULLETIN 



PROTECTED WILD DUCKS: WICHITA NATIONAL FOREST 



bellied, hairy and downy woodpeckers ply their 

 trade on every hand, now industriously inspect- 

 ing the bark of the trees, now gathering acorns 

 and depositing them in holes in the trunks, or, 

 perched high on a single dead limb beating a 

 lusty tattoo on its hard surface until the sound 

 reverberates down the canyons like a well- 

 played note of a xylophone. It is a sound so mel- 

 low and so resonant, that it is hard to believe 

 that a bird could produce it by any other means 

 than its throat, so faultless is the rhythm. 



The sap-sucker, chickadee, robin, flicker and 

 our old friend, the song sparrow, present 

 themselves in the most comradely fashion. The 

 titmouse carefully drills into an acorn at the 

 base of the oak from which he may have just 

 gathered it and then, perching upon a branch, 

 raises his head to the blue sky above and pours 

 forth his thanks in gushing song. Down near 

 the borders of the rocky creek, not one. but 

 scores of azure-coated jays wage continuous 

 warfare with as many kingfishers, each little 

 army defending and besieging a choice hollow 

 tree for which neither has the slightest use, 

 until put to shrieking, scolding rout by a flock of 

 inquisitive crows. 



If, by chance, you throw your coat over a con- 

 venient bush, one or more house wrens, or per- 

 haps a rock wren, will flutter out of the sleeves 

 or pockets as you resume it. From a clump of 



buffalo grass scurry a covey of quail, and the 

 drumming whirr of their wings disturbs a flock 

 of mourning doves, whose whistling flight 

 sounds like the hum of the wind through the 

 rigging of a ship. Close to the trunk of a dead 

 tree is a battered branch with a brown stub 

 projecting above it. A puff of wind transforms 

 the stub into the ruffled plumage and blinking 

 eyes of a belated screech-owl, whose wander- 

 ings in the night, like those of the dusky 

 horned owl in the red elm on the creek bank, 

 have been terminated by the rising sun. 



A cotton-tail rabbit jumps from the thicket 

 like a jack-in-the-box, and his twinkling feet 

 speed down the trail with a long, easy lope that 

 suggests a feeling of security. You are tempted 

 to accept his tantalizing invitation for a race, 

 until a rustle of dried leaves draws your atten- 

 tion to an open glade. Into the patch of sun- 

 light steps a stately white-tailed buck. He 

 rests his startled gaze on you for an instant, 

 and then slips into the oak scrub. Another 

 takes his place, and in turn follows on. Like .-i 

 motion picture the deer move in and out until 

 twenty flashing forms have passed and the snap- 

 ping twigs and crackling leaves betray the di- 

 rection of their hasty flight until the sounds 

 are lost in the depths of the forest. 



As the trail follows the meanderings of 

 Panther Creek, the oak scrub disappears and 



