148 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



merely dropped lower and made their attacks on 

 the grebe, the cinereous coot, and the other water 

 birds swimming around the edges of the marsh 

 with their young. 



One of the most exquisite birds I ever had in my 

 fingers was carried to me a few seasons ago by my 

 driver. It had flown in the open door of the ga- 

 rage, and was beating itself on an opposite win- 

 dow, unable to find its way out. It had battered 

 itself until it was so tired that he was able to pick 

 it up and carry it to me. It was a chestnut-sided 

 warbler, having a white throat, yellow cap, white 

 beak, chestnut sides, and half a dozen different 

 shades running from white to steel grey over its 

 wings. In a few minutes it revived so that it was 

 able to fiy. 



Mentioning this driver recalls the fact that he 

 told me on several occasions that there was a stray 

 cat which had been abandoned by some of the 

 cottagers at the head of the lake and left to run the 

 woods until it had returned to the wild, or there 

 was some kind of prowling animal of the cat species 

 in the woods behind the garage, where he said at 

 times its screams almost "raised the hair of his 

 head." One night the screams came particularly 

 early, so he hurried down to the veranda to call 

 me. I went with him to the woods, very shortly 

 located his screamer, and was able to satisfy him 

 that it was merely one of our great horned owls 

 uttering one of its most blood-curdling cries, when 



