A CALIFORNIA BEACH 



of Pike's Peak, every one crouching behind its 

 boulder, over the top of which it now and then 

 peeped at the solitary and unexpected human 

 intruder, as there came a momentary lull in the 

 gale, I marveled at their temerity in attempting 

 to live and bring up their nestlings under such 

 distressing conditions. 



At the same time I amused myself by fancy- 

 ing that I detected a possible explanation of their 

 uneasy caudal habit. In such a wind, continuous 

 for the most part day after day, no bird could be 

 expected to hold its tail still. It must be forever 

 on the tilt, like a rope-walker's balance-pole. 

 And an action of this kind, early acquired, might, 

 I thought, easily develop into a chronic nervous 

 habit — a tic, to borrow a pathological term — 

 never to be got rid of. 



That was fancy, and may be allowed to pass. 

 But the question why such a bird should be con- 

 tented to live in such a place, and in no other, 

 remains a fair one. Every kind of country, you 

 may say, must have its own kinds of birds ; mat- 

 ters are so ordained ; and so the naked summits 

 of the Rocky Mountains have their rosy finches 

 and their titlarks. I am glad they have them, 

 but such a reply is pure assumption, and rather 

 begs the question than answers it. 



For myself, I attempt no answer, though I 



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