Jan., 1917 BIRDS OF THE HUMID COAST 1.3 



Again she called softly to her invisible little ones — kit-ty-kit-ty-ough' — 

 and then to my astonishment flew out, almost straight at me, as it seemed, and 

 up onto the school roof again, her feet rapping the shingles as she lit. Prom 

 that height she could command the whole grassy lot and hear the least faint 

 piping voice. Once more she called anxiously as if thinking of the black cat, 

 To watch her movements better I changed my position. Whether the old 

 Grouse heard me or at last discovered her brood near the woods and while my 

 back was turned led the chicks to cover, I can never know, for although I 

 waited a long time, and looked eagerly on subsequent days, neither she nor the 

 chickens reappeared. The carpenter's prediction had doubtless been fulfilled — 

 "She'll take her young ones into the woods if she finds the cat is after them." 



The Oregon Ruffed Grouse were formerly plentiful here. Ten or twelve 

 years ago, the hunter told me, "there used to be lots of them — we used to take 

 the gun out and get all we wanted of them." But, he added, "they are getting 

 thinned out now," only a few being seen when hunting, and those "way back 

 in the hills." 



(To be continued) 



THE TOWNSEND SOLITAIRE 

 By FORREST S. HANFORD 



JOHN MUIR in his charming book on the Sierras of California writes at 

 length about the Water Ousel: "He is the mountain streams' own darling, 



the hummingbird of blooming waters, loving rocky ripple-slopes and 

 sheets of foam as a bee loves flowers, as a lark loves sunshine and meadows. 

 . . . . For both in winter and summer he sings, sweetly, cherrily, inde- 

 pendent alike of sunshine and of love, requiring no other inspiration than the 

 stream on which he dwells. While water sings, so must he, in heat or cold, 

 calm or storm, ever attuning his voice in sure accord; low in the drought of 

 summer and the drought of winter, but never silent ' '. 



The Solitaire, on the other hand, except for an occasional song during the 

 nesting season, is invariably silent, reflecting his surroundings to a remarkable 

 degree — a dim gray spirit of a bird flitting quietly through arched aisles of the 

 coniferous forests. He is the reigning genie of the shadow}^ nooks, the remote 

 solitudes ; his favorite haunts the dark cathedral-like groves of alpine firs, 

 ranging downward into the sunnier, more open pineries of the lower Sierras. 

 He prefers the calm margin of a dreaming lake rather than the swift tumult of 

 rivers, a sheltered cove in a quiet place to commotion and din. One does not 

 discover the Solitaire through any effort on his part to make himself conspic- 

 uous or a nuisance like the jay, nor when his solitude is invaded does he resent 

 your presence by scolding or chatter. His is rather a disposition at once sweet 

 and tolerant ; you take to him instantly end he accepts you at your true value, 

 going about his business in his ordinary shy manner, showing neither distrust 

 nor fear unless startled by an abrupt movement or loud sound. 



So rare a singer is the Solitaire that during my mountain rambles, extend- 

 ing over a period of thirteen years, I have heard the song on only five occa- 

 sions, which will long be remembered from the nature of the surroundings and 

 the delightful melody of this dweller in the silent places. The first time was 



