The Rock Wren 
“So the folks all shy from the desert land 
’ Cept mebbe a few that kin under stand." 
—Clark 
A DISCERNING soul is Sal- 
pinctes. He loves beyond all else the 
uplifted ramparts of the wilderness, 
the bare lean battlements of the ele¬ 
mental eld. They are to him the walls 
of a sanctuary, where he is both verger 
and choir master, while upon the 
scarred altars which they shelter, his 
faithful spouse has a place “where she 
may lay her young.” 
In a certain half day’s wandering 
on a desolate range west of the 
Colorado River the writer saw just 
three birds, a Vulture, a Red-tailed 
Hawk and a Rock Wren. It 
was a winter day, else 
the heat would have been 
intolerable. Water 
was a thing unthought 
of, and vegetation was 
of the scantiest, and that 
the most forbidding, 
harsh, weird, and thorn-begirt. The rounded stones which covered the 
ground were as of yesterday in their careless arrangement, but their sur¬ 
faces were burnt to a uniform brown by atmospheric acid, the product 
of volcanic activities which may have been stilled a hundred millenniums 
ago. Three birds! two of them transients, like myself, viewing the deso¬ 
lation indulgently, as knowing they could escape at any moment; and only 
one who lived there, who stayed from choice, who hugged the solitude to 
his breast, and loved it,—only one who understood! 
The Rock Wren is nestled among the most impressive surroundings, 
yet he gives no evidence of a chastened spirit. There is nothing subdued 
or melancholy about his bearing. Indeed, he has taken a commission to 
wake the old hills and to keep the shades of eld from brooding too heavily 
upon them. His song is, therefore, one of the sprightliest, most musical 
and resonant to be heard in the entire West. The rock-wall makes an 
Taken on Anacapa Island 
Photo by D. R. Dickey 
WAKING UP THE OLD HILLS 
68s 
