
NATURAL HISTORY. 
When abird or a wild animal is killed, that is the end of it. 
If photographed, it may still live and 
its educational and scientific value is multiplied indefinitely. 
A BIRD LOVER IN THE NORTHWEST. 
It was with a feeling of deep pleasure 
that I learned of an unexpected oppor- 
tunity to go up into Minnesota for 2 weeks 
in July. In my bow and arrow days I had 
lived in the Land of the Blue Waters, and 
among the most treasured of all those 
early recollections was that of a multitude 
of birds which in its valleys and on its 
hillsides live and move and play their little 
drama anew each recurring season. . 
Mid-July is a hard time for the birds 
of the Mississippi valley. A large ma- 
jority of those whose singing enlivened May 
and June have folded up their music and 
retired without responding to the encore we 
were so glad to give. Only a few hardy 
singers, members of the finch family chiefly, 
seem able to resist the shimmering, all per- 
vading heat. As I lie in the woods among 
the stalks of fragrant pennyroyal and watch 
the branches and tree tops above for bird 
life I consider myself lucky if I can catch 
glimpses of any besides the petulant pewee 
and the aggressive blue jay. 
The splendid Pioneer Limited put me 
down at a junction in Wabasha county, 
Minnesota, about 5 o’clock one gray morn- 
ing at the beginning of dog days. Noon 
of the following day found me 4o miles 
West, in the valley of the Zumbro river. 
Zumbro! What a boom and a roar the old 
Indian name has; like the voice of its own 
waters in flood time. 
Once in the valley it was evident what 
a difference 3 or 4 degrees of latitude make 
with our feathered friends. Back in Ohio 
a few soloists are still giving us bits of 
music, reveries and nocturnes principally, 
but they lack the thrill and fire of the 
bridal choruses of spring. Here in the 
valley the whole chorus, from treble of 
indigo bunting to bass of His Highness, 
the owl, is still in full song without a 
quaver or a listless note to indicate the 
approaching end of the season’s revel. 
Spring has elbowed midsummer out of the 
way and come back to give us a taste of 
the days when the cup of the senses is 
filled to the brim. 
In the thickets of willow, box elder, and 
scrub oak, that clothe the lower, middle, 
and upper slopes of the Zumbro hills, there 
is every opportunity for the birds to enjoy 
life. Fertile bottom lands with their rank 
growth of weeds breed worms and larve 
in profusion; red raspberry bushes a few 
yards higher on the hillside furnish the 
best of fruit; while shade and water are to 
3°93 
be had for the asking. From the bird 
student’s standpoint there is a marked and 
acceptable difference between these haunts 
and those of the Maumee or the Central 
Mississippi valley, namely, the accessibility 
of the birds. To be sure, these Minnesota 
woods look scrawny and stubby to a man 
from the forests of elm or cypress, but 
here comes in what Emerson calls the law 
of compensation. Where trees are short 
there need be no straining or twisting of the 
neck to distinguish the hues of a Helmin- 
thophila or a Dendroica 80 or 100 feet 
above one’s head. 
Down near the water the catbirds were 
especially numerous, Sometimes as many 
as 4 were in sight at once on the telegraph 
wires; while others, hidden in the foliage, 
told of their presence in no uncertain way. 
A catbird, like a woman, can be charming 
when he tries, but when he chooses to scold 
he is a most uninteresting creature. In the 
Ozarks, in the Cumberlands, on the prairies 
of Illinois and along the historic Maumee, 
I had often observed Galeoscoptes caro- 
linensis, but in none of these sections have 
I found them so conspicuous either for 
numbers or music as in Southern Minne- 
sota. 
Our little friend of the Ohio berry fields, 
the indigo bunting, was also much in evi- 
dence. Instead of taking the dark, leafy 
recesses or the telegraph wires, like the cat- 
bird, he chooses for his perch the topmost 
twig. There he sits and swings, piping to 
himself in the manner of a person well sat- 
isfied with himself and the world. His wife 
dresses plainly; dull brown with a wash 
of blue seems to be the brightest she can 
afford. At any rate, he puts on the style 
for the whole family. I doubt not that in 
the nice economy of Nature things are 
evened; that the male gets: his bright suit 
to compensate him for some serious lack, 
perhaps some stratum of improvidence or 
thoughtlessness in his make-up. 
One Sunday afternoon found me wander- 
ing up the valley of the most interesting 
tributary of the Zumbro, an ice-cold trout 
stream only a mile long, yet large and pow- 
erful enough to run a mill. Alternating 
stretches of pasture and woodland, of noisy 
shallows and quiet pools, make it an ideal 
place for our feathered friends. The birds 
and the brook were such good company 
that the afternoon was almost gone before 
I realized it was time to start back if 
I expected any supper that evening. Sud- 
denly there fell on my ear the note of the 
