The Sage Sparrows 



character the song is a sort of subdued musical croaking, mellow and 

 rich at close quarters, but with little carrying power. The bird throws 

 his head well back in singing, and the tail is carried more nearly horizontal 

 than is the case with most Sparrows. A song from a northern station 

 ran: Heo, chip' pew ay , chip'peway, chip'peway, but a more common type 

 is Tup, tup, to weely, chup, tup. A pretentious ditty, occupying two 

 seconds in delivery, runs Hooriedoppety, weeter wee, doodlety pootat'er, — 

 an ecstacy song, wherein the little singer seems to be intoxicated with 

 the aroma of his favorite sage. 



One may search a long time in the neighborhood of the singer — 

 who, by the way, closes the concert abruptly when he realizes that he 

 is likely to give his secret away — before finding the humble domicile 

 a foot or two up in a sage bush. A nest which contained five eggs was 

 composed externally of sage twigs set into a concealed crotch of the 

 bush, but the bulk of it consisted of weed-bark and "hemp" of a quite 

 uniform quality; while the lining contained tufts of wool, rabbit-fur, 

 cow-hair, feathers, and a few coiled horse-hairs. The feathers were 

 procured at some distant ranch, and their soft tips were gracefully 

 upturned to further the concealment of the eggs, already well protected 

 by their grayish green tints. 



Another nest, sighted some forty paces away, contained one egg, 

 and we had high hopes of being able to secure photographs of one of 

 the prospects (not to mention the eggs themselves) upon our return 

 with the camera. But a few rods further we came upon a crew of sneak- 

 ing Magpies, scouring the sage with a dozen beady eyes, and passing 

 sneering or vulgarly jocose remarks upon what they found. When 

 we returned, therefore, a day or two later, we were not surprised to 

 learn that the feathered marauders had preferred egg-in-the-bill to 

 souvenir photographs. 



Bird-nesting is a heartless business. Its devotees become hardened 

 by practice, although the ends doubtless do justify the means in the 

 case of a few serious investigators. But now and then confiding trust 

 wins over you, and despoils you of a coveted take — especially if you are a 

 bird-photographer. Last Sunday — May 31, 1908, it was — I came upon a 

 cunning home in a sage bush on the hillside just back of camp. It was 

 empty, but manifestly awaiting the finishing touches, a few more trim 

 feathers, to fit it for occupancy. Four days later the nest held three eggs, 

 and the day following four, with the mother bird sitting tight. In fact, she 

 was very loth to leave, and let me put my face within a foot or so of her be- 

 fore stealing off softly. This aroused the photographer in me and made 

 the oologist groan, for I had been this road before, and foresaw a contest 

 of courtesy instead of oval treasures much needed by a certain museum. 



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