The American Pipit 
Pipit is a very different creature from the straggler of the long trail. 
On his native heather, surrounded by dwarfed fir trees, melting snow- 
fields, and splendid vistas of peak and cloud, he knows exactly what 
he wants, and is quite capable of flying in a straight line. The season 
is late, June 23, 1906, and the snows have only just released the impatient 
mountainside at 6000 feet elevation. Slate-colored Sparrows are caroling 
tenderly from the thickets of stunted fir. Sierra Hermit Thrushes, those 
minstrels of heaven, flit elusively from clump to clump or pause to re¬ 
hearse from their depths some spiritual strain. Leucostictes look in upon 
the scene in passing, but they hasten at a prudent thought to their loftier 
ramparts. The real busybodies of the place are the Pipits. Females, 
lisping suspiciously, hurry to and fro, discussing locations, matching 
straws, playfully rebuking over-bold swains, and hastily gulping insects 
on the side. The male birds hover about their mates solicitously—never 
helping, of course—or else sing lustily from prominent knolls and rocks. 
Photo by the Author 
Taken in Santa Barbara 
PIPIT ON KELP ROOT 
