The Western Lark Sparrow 



Indigo Bird (Passerina cyanea), but the notes are louder and more metal- 

 lic, and their delivery more vigorous. Though seemingly hurried, it is 

 one continued gush of sprightly music; now gay, now melodious, and then 

 tender beyond description, — the very expression of emotion. At inter- 

 vals the singer falters, as if exhausted by exertion, and his voice becomes 

 scarcely audible; but suddenly reviving in his joy, it is resumed in all its 

 vigor, until he appears to be really overcome by the effort." 



Nor is it alone the emotions of springtime which provoke this min- 

 strel to utterance. In fall or winter, when they are flocking, a special 

 dispensation of sunshine will set them all to singing. No less than a 

 score of them are huddled together in a treetop, and a merry eistedfod 

 we shall have of it. Little Welchmen! That's what I call them, for 

 they excel in song as they do in gladness of heart. Aye, aye, what a 

 merry mad bird house it is! No two of them singing alike in theme or 

 tempo, but all of them pitching in at once with a royal good will! Isn't 

 it glorious — tinkling, bubbling, gushing, trilling! Who says that a 



December day in Cali- 

 fornia is not as good as 

 June anywhere else? 



As in the case of the 

 Sandwich and Savanna 

 Sparrows, the curiously 

 striped coloration of this 

 bird's head is evidently 

 intended to facilitate 

 concealment. The bird 

 peering out of a weed 

 clump is almost invis- 

 ible. And yet, as I was 

 once passing along a 

 sage-clad hillside with an 

 observing young rancher, 

 my companion halted 

 with a cry. He had 

 caught the gleam of a 

 Lark Sparrow's eye as 

 she sat brooding under a perfect mop of dead broom-sage. The camera 

 was brought into requisition, and the lens pointed downward. The 

 camera-cloth bellied and flapped in the breeze, yellow tripod legs waved 

 belligerently, and altogether there was much noise of photographic com- 

 merce, but the little mother clung to her eggs. The stupid glass eye of 

 the machine, spite of all coaxing, saw nothing but twigs, and we were obliged 



Taken in Ventura County 



Photo by Donald R. Dickey 



TESTING THE WIRE 



239 



