24 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



might remark in careless, proprietary tones : "Hear 

 my cuckoo calling for rain! " 



In my enumeration, I included the queer little 

 stilt-legged killdeer that had a nest on the creek 

 bank of the meadow. I was on terms of such 

 intimacy with her during the last few days of her 

 brooding that she would take food from my fingers 

 and even allow me to stroke her wing. There was 

 another pair of hawks nesting in the big oak over- 

 hanging the brook a short distance farther in its 

 course to the south ; while I was as proud to possess 

 the owls, from every little brown screecher in a hol- 

 low apple tree of the orchard to the great horned 

 hooter of the big woods, as I was the finest song and 

 game birds. In the greed of my small soul I saw 

 myself ordering my brothers and sisters never again 

 to take the eggs from any quail nest of the fence 

 corners. I do not recall that I made a virtuous 

 resolve at that minute not to take any more my- 

 self, but I do remember that the next time I found 

 a nest of eggs it occurred to me that if I left them 

 to hatch I should have that many more birds, so 

 I never robbed another nest. In that hour I was 

 almost dazed with the wonder and the marvel of 

 my gift, and to-day, after a lifetime of experience 

 among the birds, this gift seems even more wonder- 

 ful than it did then. 



That same day the search began for new treas- 

 ures. No queen on her throne, I am sure, ever 

 felt so rich or so proud as the little girl who owned 



