May, 1918 A RETURN TO THE DAKOTA LAKE REGION 113 



tail, jumped up and went bounding off over the prairie flowers. And how 

 bright and pretty the flowers looked ! — white, pink, yellow, and blue. 



Three days later no anxious parents flew over to meet my approach, none 

 appeared to question my presence on the dry knoll ; but beyond the slough, be- 

 tween two beautiful oblongs of solid yellow mustard lay a strip of brown 

 earth recently plowed by a traction engine with its gangplow that I had been 

 watching as it moved back and forth on the horizon, and from this direction 

 Plover voices were coming. On crossing the first fragrant mustard field, en- 

 joying its vivid color and sweet odor with its suggestion of the head high mus- 

 tard fields of southern California, I heard small voices down among the stalks 

 that I imagined were those of the young Plover, and a pair of adults flew 

 about, disturbed when getting their evening meal from the dark mellow earth. 

 One of the pair lit on the plowed ground, its long neck bent in like a Her- 

 on's and, stilted up on its long legs, trotted toward me opening wide its bill 

 taking me to task. Flying up it again took a turn around over the mustard, 

 afterwards realighting and walking up within about twenty feet of me, so 

 close that I could distinguish the fine barring of its neck and sides. Black 

 Terns went by with their thin ek, ek, a Marsh Hawk swept over the mustard, a 

 Bobolink sang, and the breeze brought the heliotrope-like fragrance of the 

 beautiful yellow acre. 



About two weeks later when I went to take a last look for the Plover, they 

 had apparently left the neighborhood, but I had a memorable walk. Making 

 my way slowly through the blooming mustard, I had once again the rare prai- 

 rie experience of encompassing clouds closing in about me ; but this time the 

 golden acre was the circle enclosed, a sun-filled peaceful acre reflecting the 

 serenity of the sky. 



A bubbling note heard on an August night, and a flock of birds that I took 

 to be Upland Plover passing swiftly overhead, closed a chapter that was one 

 of the best in all my summer. Would that these lovely birds, with their rich, 

 musical notes, their trustful ways and their large gentle eyes might abound in 

 the land to delight the hearts of all true bird lovers ! 



In driving back and forth from the home of the Upland Plover, I saw a 

 number of interesting sights. One day it was a small band of Black Terns 

 hovering over black earth being turned up by a five horse gang plow. On 

 other days four Mourning Doves, almost the first seen, flew from a field; 

 again three Chestnut-collared Longspurs rose from a fence; and — near a big 

 straw stack in a field alive with ground squirrels — a Short-eared Owl flapped 

 along in broad daylight. 



But the most interesting sight by the way was on a day when our little 

 school boy and I were returning from his grandfather's in the two-wheeled 

 sulkey, accompanied by the family dog. As old Polly jogged along, suddenly 

 a big bird with long flapping wings came screaming toward us, followed pres- 

 ently by two nearly grow T n young. As we watched astonished, they crossed the 

 road ahead of us and flew down by a pool of water on the other side of the 

 road, as they did so, raising such striking black and white banded wings that I 

 exclaimed delightedly, "Willets!" At first the young stood on the brown 

 field while their mother stood around trying to decoy us away, but when we 

 did not go, and no harm came to the young, she finally lit near them for a few 

 moments. On the brown earth they all looked dim, their brown toning in 

 almost to invisibility. Quite different they were from the Upland Plover. 



