136 THR CONDOR Vol. XX 



own, a Snipe sat on the next in the row, and Franklin Gulls on still others 

 down the beach. 



Among the birds of Stump Lake should be mentioned a Voice of the Night, 

 for although no Bittern- was seen there, at eleven o'clock one night, when I 

 was watching the stars and enjoying the peace and beauty of the night, the 

 stillness was broken by its remarkable performance, coming from a slough 

 close by. So realistic was it that I could well believe the story of the Norwe- 

 gian girl at Sweetwater, who ran in to her mother, demanding excitedly, ' ' Say, 

 ma, have they got a new wooden pump at Smiths? I could just hear it pump- 

 ing!" In this case the pump seemed an old, squeaky one hard to start, though 

 once started it went on with a goodly pump, iimp, ump. "Its the Pump Suck- 

 er!" one of my friends exclaimed, and I congratulated myself that at last 1 

 had heard the Bittern's famous performance. 



It was followed by Sora songs and a fast cuck-cuck-cuck-cuck ending with 

 a slow cow-cow-cow, possibly from an awakened Cuckoo neighbor. Soras were 

 heard on several nights between ten and eleven from a grassy slough near the 

 house, and during a thunder storm one night they burst out into song, several 

 singing together, one breaking out before another was through. They sang 

 about half past one just before the rain fell and they may have been roused by 

 the lightning. The next morning I whistled them up as I went along the wood- 

 ed border of the slough, and sometimes three or four sang as I passed. But 

 the Bittern, if there, kept silent. 



While the Bittern's pump was a new and exciting experience to me, other 

 experiences were pleasant reminders of my first visit to the region. The House 

 Wrens were singing as gaily as ever, and two pairs at least had nests near the 

 house, one in a bag of thin carpet tied to a branch, and the other in a split in 

 the cushion of a wagon seat. "I've had them start to build, to put in little 

 twigs in the shirt sleeves on a clothes line," my white-haired friend told me, 

 adding, "we'd hang them out in the forenoon and when we come to take them 

 in at night there 'd be a lot of sticks in some of them." When she hung up 

 an old coat the Wrens made nests in the sleeves and pockets and lining, and as 

 she said, "some would be hatchin' out while others was still layin'." 



Among the old friends, Goldfinches carolled as they rolled through the sky 

 and Martins called in loud raucous tones from the woods where I had previous- 

 ly found them nesting. There was also a number of old threads to be picked up 

 near the lake. On the shore near the site of a Spotted Sandpiper's nest found 

 under a silver leaf bush on my former visit, grown young were apparently out 

 of the nest, as I saw four together flying along the shore, and a pair were much 

 disturbed when the "chicken dog" went running down the beach ahead of me. 

 AVhen one of them flew toward us showing its large breast spots, he chased after 

 it, rushing out into the water where it lit on a snag, and afterwards following 

 it on down the beach. A few of the gentle Eared Grebes with the pointed crest 

 which reminded me of those I had seen along shore before — watched the 

 "chicken dog" nervously, and after looking this way and that, dived, and 

 swam under water farther out in the lake. 



At sunset one night I saw four large hawks, apparently full grown Ferru- 

 ginous Rough-legs, doubtless from the great ancestral nest I had visited four 

 years before, standing statuesquely, one on a stump beside the water, two on 

 a large rock close by, and the fourth on an upturned root, where from the dis- 

 tance their light breasts looked buffy in the evening light. Once a parent 



