134 THE CONDOR Vol. XX 



At Stump Lake, on the day when we watched the Scoters work their way 

 across to the islands, we were keeping an eye out for old Marsh Hawks ' nests, 

 and Prairie Chickens and their nests. In the same large silver leaf basin and 

 not far from the nest where we had previously photographed the young Marsh 

 Hawks, my friend showed me this year's nest — more than two feet wide in a 

 bunch of snowberry, rose, and silver leaf. As we were going along the lake 

 shore, Jeff, the "chicken dog", suddenly made a point in the silver leaf — nose 

 and tail straight as a ruler — and a Prairie Hen with white-bordered tail sug- 

 gesting a Meadowlark — disappeared over the bushes. A nest beside an old 

 hay road had been marked with a stone for me, and when it could not be found, 

 the child who was with us and who was collecting stones, was questioned about 

 it ; but she replied with grave assurance, ' ' I wouldn 't take such a valuable 

 stone." 



When the nest was finally discovered in a bunch of snowberry, wild rose, 

 and weeds, on its floor of grass and small sticks lay one unhatched egg and 

 shells of seven others, four of them — as is often the case in hens' nests — with 

 the two halves inside each other. The nest at first discovery had contained six- 

 teen eggs, and at succeeding visits, for some unexplained reason, fifteen, and 

 then fourteen. The mother who was only laying when first surprised on her 

 nest, as my friend explained, "fluttered along a 'ways close to the ground — 

 didn't flop her wings as they do when they have young — and lit maybe a cou- 

 ple of rods from the nest." Later, when the little girl and her father found 

 the Hen sitting, she flew up, ' ' acting as if wounded, ' ' the child said. 



In the winters, my friend told me, when it gets cold and there is a great 

 deal of snow the Prairie Hens come close to the farmhouse. One was seen on 

 the kitchen doorstep one morning, and a covey of twelve or fifteen close by. 

 A covey that stayed around for two weeks, coming to bare places near the 

 house and picking from tall weeds in the garden, were so tame that the family 

 could watch them through the window, although if they opened the door to 

 throw out crumbs the birds would fly. 



By a snowberry patch near the road we twice flushed Chickens about a 

 third grown. One that I caught a glimpse of when off his guard stood in a 

 cocky pose, head high, and short tail up ; but as soon as he saw me he crouched, 

 making himself small as he ran down the grass-arched wheel track. 



In the woods near the farmhouse where I had watched a Long-eared Owl's 

 nest, Golden-eyed Ducks had nested for a great many years. When the boys of 

 the family had been collecting eggs for the State University, I was told, they 

 had taken two dozen eggs from a single nest — from one to three at a time — 

 the old Duck keeping on laying to replace them ; but finally the boys ' father 

 had made them stop, to give the Duck a chance to set. Three nests had been 

 found by my friend a few weeks before my visit, two in trees and one in a 

 stump. In the early mornings, she said, the six old Ducks would be seen cir- 

 cling around and around over the trees, flying fast, "as if exercising". Before 

 leaving the nest, the Golden-eyes always cover their eggs, she added, "even 

 when you scare the old Duck out." 



One of the nests had been left not long before my visit, and some of the 

 mother's down and bits of green shell could still be seen through the hole in 

 the foot of the tree trunk by which the young had left. The mother herself 

 always went and came at the top of the hollow, my friend explained. In anoth- 



