214 WILSON'S SNIPE. 



of that strongly specialized instrument, well supplied with 

 the most sensitive nerves, readily detecting the presence of 

 earth-worms, or such tender roots of plants as are agreeable 

 to the bird's taste. How queer he looks now, standing in that 

 half-crouched position, as if intently listening; or, how 

 pleasing as he stands at ease, one foot raised, and his back- 

 ward eyes peering weirdly. Or note him as he approaches 

 the coy female half-hidden in the faded grass so near her 

 own color. Bending forward with neck shortened and 

 curved till his breast and the tip of his bill nearly 

 touch the ground, the tips of his loosened and droop- 

 ing wings dragging at his sides, and his elevated tail 

 spread out like a quaint little fan, he struts before her as gay 

 as a Turkey-cock in miniature. Should anything alarm him, 

 he will scamper away quite a distance into the thick grasses 

 and sedges; or, if he be hard pressed, he may take wing, 

 and, rising a few feet into the air and emitting his charac- 

 teristic "How-Ike," fly in a nervous zigzag manner for 

 a few rods, and quickly drop out of sight. This short and 

 rapid flight is the supreme moment for a shot. And if 

 anything will send one's blood tingling to the tips of 

 fingers and toes, it is to drop this noted creature of the 

 bog and fen just as he gets fairly under way. 



Many a time in boyhood, as I searched for the cows in the 

 wild meadow close by the stream meandering through the 

 alders, did the . Snipe leave her nest just under my feet. 

 Merely glancing at the warm, grayish-brown eggs heavily 

 blotched with umber — the four pear-shaped objects lying 

 with the small ends together in a mere depression of the 

 ground on a few leaves or dried grasses — I would start after 

 the artful bird in her moods of distress. Surely thinking 

 her sick or wounded and ready to die, as she tumbled and 

 fluttered about on the ground only a few feet from me, 



