PROFESSIONAL FLY-CATCHING 



light, within five minutes the bird hopped back on to 

 the nest and did not move at the cUck of the shutter. 



To make this story short, I repeated this operation a 

 dozen times, securing a fine array of pictures, probably 

 the first ever taken of the Alder Flycatcher from life. 

 The camera was within a yard of the nest and I used 

 the single twelve-inch lens. The bird became so 

 accustomed to my presence that she would return to 

 her task sometimes the moment I withdrew. I could 

 walk up within a few feet of her as she sat on the nest, 

 and once she let me change the plate and photograph 

 her by hand without leaving. The last few times I 

 pulled the thread as she stood erect on the rim of the 

 nest preparatory to descending into it. 



Evidently the shyness of the Alder Flycatcher is not 

 unconquerable and is due rather to a natural timidity 

 than to dislike for our sort of people. But shy the bird 

 certainly is. Except for this one drawn to the nest by 

 maternal instinct, it was hard to get even a glimpse of 

 them. They are very silent, too. The only sounds I 

 heard from those intruded upon was a very soft, low 

 "pweet." In the distance the song of the male was 

 hardly audible, if, indeed, it deserves to be called a 

 song, only two syllables like "pe-weet." 



Leaving this spot, perfectly delighted at my success, I 

 drove to the other nest to see if the eggs were laid and 

 how that bird would act. Other birds that I met 

 delayed me, and, missing the exact clump of alders, 

 as there was not time for a careful search I was about 



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