304 
bunting. I looked about and finally located 
him in the top of a scrub oak. Below him, 
6 or 8 feet, sat a scarlet tanager, as brilliant 
as black and scarlet could make him, in 
his bower of dark green. Talk of the 
bright colored birds of the tropics! Who- 
ever saw, even in the forests of Honduras, 
a more brilliant combination of vivid colors 
than this of blue, black, and scarlet, set 
off against the green of the oak. A few 
rods past this tree I heard the old familiar 
chirp that greeted my ears on my rambles 
in Central Illinois, and there flew out of a 
bushy haw, straight to the top wire of the 
fence in front, a rose breasted grosbeak, 
an exponent of the beauty of the milder 
hues of rose, white, and black. 
Minnesota birds are not color demonstra- 
tors only; they sing with the best of any 
latitude. The evening before I left the 
Zumbro valley I was sitting on the upper 
verandah of the hotel, reading letters and 
looking over my notes for the day, when 
in the woods across the river, without an- 
nouncement or prelude, a wood thrush be- 
gan to sing. After a few of bars of purest 
fluting he ceased. A moment’s hush, and 
then, a quarter of a mile up the stream, 
came a response, in tones as pure and 
liquid as his own. Soon a third joined in, 
and for the next half hour of that brilliant 
Northern twilight the concert continued. 
May be it was a contest. If it was, those 
birds were on a higher plane than human 
beings at such times, for through it all 
there was not one harsh note of envy or 
jealousy to mar the perfect expression of 
full veined, midsummer life in the North. 
Who knows but what these birds were 
holding a round table conference or some- * 
thing of that sort and were telling one 
another the superior advantages of Minne- 
sota as a health resort? As the orange 
and red faded out of the West, to be re- 
placed by waves of crimson and purple, 
and finally passed into the soft.grey of 
early night, the trio lapsed into reveries; 
at last in one particularly rich chorus, in 
which all 3 participated, the music ended 
for the night. ° 
James S. Compton, Hazel Green, Ky. 

A SPRING TRIP TO PUSLINCH LAKE. 
In this locality Puslinch lake is the only 
body of water of any extent. It is 10 miles 
from the city, and is about a mile and a 
half long by a mile wide. 
The depth, counting only water, is about 
6 to 15 feet; but counting mud, apparently 
4to5 miles. The district surrounding Pus- 
linch lake has by far the richest fauna and 
flora of any place in this locality, and many 
are the visits I pay to this delightful spot. 
April 30th of last year the air was full 
of the revivifying influence of spring, the 
tender green was showing on the black 
RECREATION. 
willow and trembling aspen, and the leaves 
of the red berried elder were well expanded, 
Five thirty a. m. found me mounting my 
wheel with a day’s provisions in my fish 
basket, which serves me as a provision bag, 
specimen case, egg box, and vasculum, and 
which also serves to get me into many an 
argument with the ultra religious when 
carried Sundays. These same individuals 
often seem much disappointed when I show 
them the contents and they find I am not 
breaking the laws of the land. 
When out on such a morning as this, 
one feels great compassion for people who 
prefer to snore between the sheets until 
the freshness of the day has worn off. As 
I wheel along, bird notes from all sides 
proclaim the identity of their ownets. From 
every hand comes the carol of the robin, 
always the first musician of the morning; 
from the fields the clear whistle of the 
meadow lark, the sweet song of the ves- 
per sparrow, on this occasion singing 
matins; the peculiar little ditty of the Sa- 
vanna sparrow, with its grasshopper-like 
ending; and from the plowed land the notes 
of the prairie horned lark, which resemble 
the squeak of an unoiled caster. 
As I pass a piece of damp woodland the 
minor whistle of the white throated spar- 
row, the fine music of the winter wren, the 
exquisite melody of the Wilson’s thrush, 
and the song of the ruby crowned kinglet, 
so powerful for the size of the bird, sound 
through the clear air. All these I recog- 
nize; but a new note strikes my ear, a 
sound like the sharpening of a fine saw. 
am off in a twinkling, not even waiting for 
the wheel to lose its momentum, and en- 
tering the bush quickly but quietly I behold 
the first warbler of the season, the black 
and white. He is creeping up the trunk of 
a white elm, picking out insects and their 
eggs from the crevices of the bark, and be- 
tween every mouthful or 2 uttering | his 
sharp “cee-sweee-cee-sweee-cee-sweee.” To 
the first appearance of anything for the 
season, great interest is always attached, 
but in the case of the first warbler this in- 
terest is augmented by the fact that for the 
next month our woods will be gay with the 
brilliant songs and bright plumages of these 
beautiful migrants. 
While watching this black and white 
warbler I hear another song, that of the 
black throated green warbler; a song dis- 
tinct from that of any other bird, hard to 
describe, difficult to imitate, but once heard 
always recognized. After renewing my ac- 
quaintance with this latter warbler, I mount 
and proceed, but while crossing the bridge 
over the river Speed, a fresh bird voice 
causes another hasty dismount, and I enter 
the thicket bordering the river to have 
a look at the water thrush, which has 
just arrived from the South. Up on a 
