The Ruby-crowned Kinglets 
squeakings, sudden cessations, and indefinite repetitions of the main 
phrase—as high as seven, I believe. The birds of the Mammoth section, 
in southern Mono County east of the Sierras, have, among others, a 
localized strain which scarcely deserves the name of song at all, so prosaic 
and almost repulsive is it,— sheb'le sheb'le sheble shep or sheb'le, sheb'le, 
sheb'le, pootsiweek. These less gifted singers, however, seem to have 
no difficulty in securing mates, and, indeed, I am not sure that my poor 
opinion of their song is not subtly connected with the fact that one of 
their number, the most brazen, shouted at us derisively for hours, keeping 
well to a clump of trees which we morally knew contained a nest—the 
while an icy breeze from off the Mammoth Crests numbed first our 
fingers, then our feet, and lastly our courage. The same bird started 
to shout sheb'le sheb'le —at us from the same grove when we returned two 
years later; but we hurried past, muttering unprintable things. Whence, 
I conclude that Grinnell’s claim of a resident race, cineraceus , in Cali¬ 
fornia, is a valid one, and that we have much to learn of the California 
Ruby-crowned Kinglet. 
Like the Golden-Crowns, the Rubies weave a wonderful basket, 
which they swing from the end of a fir bough, or snuggle under the 
protecting tip. It is composed externally of whatever moss the locality 
offers in greatest abundance. This may contrast sharply in color with 
the surrounding foliage but, even so, it will be so dextrously concealed 
that none but the shrewdest eye may suspect its presence. Because of 
this and because of the wayward actions of the owners, the quest of the 
Ruby-crown’s nest is one of the most fascinating of human pursuits. 
I have spent many hours at it and up to the summer of 1919 I had found— 
just two. In the first instance I caught the male pausing momentarily 
to feed his mate in a theretofore unsuspected thickening of a fir branch 
30 feet up; and in the second I heard the male singing persistently in 
the home tree. In either case I generalized promptly (you have to in 
practical life), but the rules evolved were only two of a dozen that have 
to be learned for successful nesting. 
It is not, therefore, all roses hunting Ruby-crowns’ nests. The 
more determined you are to succeed, the more baffling seem to be the 
difficulties encountered. For an atom only as big as your thumb, the 
Ruby-crowned Kinglet is singularly sagacious. He has foresight and 
hindsight, and often enough, apparently, insight. He has his suspicions, 
at least, and when you hear the preparatory notes tew tew tew or teer teer 
teer continued indefinitely without sliding into the song proper, you 
may know that the royal midget is on guard. And if he does sing almost 
incessantly in the tree tops, his song circuit is a wide one, so that you 
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