50 
-A-pril 24r 
you see daylight under him, and cannot make out his 
delicate legs. Xow he snuffs us : see him turn his broad 
white stern and buckle down to the run on those invisible 
legs. What bounds'. The way he draws his hind quar- 
ters under him makes him look as if he were whittled 
off behind. Don’t you think there’s a great deal of 
nonsense printed about flagging antelopes into the 
muzzle of a gun? I’ll swear there is, though the crea- 
ture certainly has his share of curiosity, and will stop 
and take a look often when he had much better keep 
running. What’s the matter now? Hasn’t your horse 
got over his silly trick of shying at buffalo skeletons? 
Why, we must have passed a thousand these last few 
days. This old Government steed of mine is warranted 
to stand skeletons, though I own I want to get on an 
animal with more leather in him, and less on him when 
I ride after buffalo meat on the hoof. 
Yes, it is further than it looks. There are more acres 
to the square mile in this country than in places where 
roads and fences grow. But you see we have already got 
into a little hollow; the ground has risen all around us. 
Notice that little bunch of tall grass no bigger 
than your hat. That’s the very starting point of 
the stream. And now you see the rushes stretching 
away over yonder, in broken clumps growing larger and 
larger, and then running together. There’s our water 
and our game. Let us get off and arrange the pro- 
gramme; for just as I tell you, so will it be. 
You shall take one side, and I the other; we shall 
raise every duck as we go along. We will ride slowly 
till we get within a hundred yards of that first pool; 
then we will dismount. The horses will stand, if we 
let the lariats trail. We will creep quietly up shelter- 
edly, that little rise of ground that makes the cut-bank 
there and as we peep over the edge, right below us shall 
we see the birds. Not one, but a multitude, not one 
kind only, but a congregation of the ducks of this part 
of the world. The lordly Mallards are there paddling 
idly, carelessly quacking a reminiscence of the home- 
stead. Those elegant clippers, the Pintails, cross and 
le-cross each other’s path, bunched together in a recess 
of the rushes. Dainty little Teals, both blue winged 
and green, sleep at anchor, their heads buried in the 
long scapular plumes. A line of Shovellers, with their 
broad-bills, are scooping and sifting by the water’s edge; 
while here and there swim Gadwalls and Widgeons, a 
motley throng. Each and every one of these ducks 
shall be well within the range of your breech-loader. 
Feel confident of this, and when you have admired 
them sufficiently, show yourself, and let drive right and 
left sharp, as they rise, a quacking, splashing, whirring 
mass. Free you are even of the temptation to pot them 
on the water; for you know you can drop more from the 
air, just as the wingsare fully spread, exposing the vital 
parts. And how easily the shot will penetrate when 
you rake them with their backs to you, going straight 
off. And as for hitting, is it not the simplest thing in 
the world to cover a duck in the bustle and flurry of its 
rise, before it gets fairly settled on its course. 
We shall only get our four shots at that particular 
puddle; there won’t be a duck in range five seconds af- 
ter the reports. It will not “rain ducks either ;” but I 
fancy there’ll be a sprinkling of them. I’ll retrieve for 
you this time but won’t deprive you of that share of the 
sport all day. I don’t mind being wet as to the legs, 
but you know that a man wet any higher might as well 
be wet all over! If any ducks fall in deep water. I’ll 
tie a little stone to the long string and “}'ank,”them in. 
We will fasten our game securely to the saddle, and 
“raise” the next pond. And so on. Down there a mile 
or two the pools string together and the rushes are high, 
and we need not even dismount to shoot. We will ride 
along and take them from the saddles as they top the 
reeds. Your horse will stand fire of course? If he 
won’t you had better sell him, or go east. Mine got a 
little skittish for a while, some time ago, when I singed 
one of his ears in a hasty shot at a jack- rabbit; but he is 
all right now. The banks of the stream beyond are 
firm, so there’s no danger of miring down. And when 
we have got half as many ducks as we want, we’ll rest a 
bit, and take a lunch and smoke, and work back up the 
stream. The birds will be back as thick as ever, and we 
wiU do it all over again. And befoie we get back to 
this blessed spot, you shall have such a heap of ducks 
on your cantle as to make j'ou throw your leg sky ward 
on mounting. 
My word for it, brother sportsman, this programme, 
whereof I write, is written from memory, and many a 
time have I carried such a one out. If ducks and ponds 
and rushes and cut banks were got up for our benefit, a 
the guns are, could anj'thing be better? Who cares, 
either, for the ten mile ride back to camp? We unload 
with enough and to spare for the other officer’s mess. 
How shall we divide? ;Well, for my part, let them 
have all the big ducks, if they wish — yes, even those 
Pintails, delicately luscious Tas I know they are — but 
spare, oh! spare my dainty green-winged Teals! Teal 
on toast! split doivn the back, piping hot from the 
gridiron, still red all through, melting and dripping in 
savory sweetness! I will,,take another teal on toast, if 
you please; nay, I will divide a third teal with you, and 
then — “fate cannot harm me — I have dined.” 
HABITS OF THE HOIR.MXG WARBLER. 
(GeotMypis phUadelphia.) 
BY WM. BREWSTER. 
(Read before the Nuttall Ornithological Club 3d April 18T5.) 
A rare species nearlyevery where, but few field ob- 
servers have had the. good fortune to find this bird in 
any numbers, or to gain much reliable informrtion con- 
cerning its habits. Having been more fortunate in this 
respect than most of my fellow ornithologists, I have 
found the Mourning Warbler during the past three sum- 
mers, not at all uncommon in the region lying about the 
Umbagog lakes in Western Maine, and will endeavor 
to give such a description of its habits at the different 
seasons, as will bring to the reader’s mind, not only the 
bird in life, but also the characteristic sights and sounds 
by which itjis surrounded, foi these, me jvdice, are as 
inseparable from it as the bark from a walnut, or the 
rind from an orange. Take any one of our common 
birds, the bobolink for instance; what a different bird 
is ne in a cage than when rollicking among the daisies 
and buttercups of our June meadows. The daisies and 
buttercups are as much companions of his mad frolics 
as the long-drawn, plaintive whistle of the meadow lark 
is of his jingling song. What is the one without the 
other? But to return. It requires no slight effort of 
ihe imagination to leave behind this disheartening pros- 
pect of muddy' streets and snow covered fields that will 
thiust its dreary self before my eyes this chill March 
day', but I can just recall a bright spring morning some 
three years ago, when with a warm friend and pleasant 
companion, I made my first acquaintance with the bird 
I am about to describe. Arriving at our destination 
late the night before, we were, nevertheless, afoot with 
the first faint gleams of the coming day, and making 
all necessary preparations were soon out in the cool 
morning air. The scene that lay before our eyes, 
though wild and rugged, was one of surpassing loveli- 
ness. The little frontier hotel standing on a rising 
ground behind, seemed in imminent danger of being 
swallowed up by the vast extent of primeval forest 
which closely hemmed it in on three sides, while on the 
fourth and to the westward of us lay a lake, beautiful as 
a gem in its setting of bright forest green broken here and 
there by a fringe of gaunt decaying stubs, which added 
much of wildness, while detracting but little of beauty 
from its otherwise clear, firm outline. As we gazed the 
glancing rays of the rising sun began to strike upon the 
water causing it to sparkle brightly where its surface 
was ruffied by' the soft morning breeze, or broken into 
rings by the rise of some mighty trout. From a distant 
cove came the plaintive, quavering cry of a loon, and 
the next moment another nearer answered with a per- 
fect hurst of bold defiance, or perhaps it was only recogni 
tion, for as he ceased, a soft woo-loo-oo came down again 
on the wind like the wail of a spirit. Suddenly from 
ovei head came a rush of whistling wings and a little 
bunch of hooded mergansers shot past and with a half- 
wheel went down into the lake, the bright spray flash- 
ing high as their heavy bodies struck the surface. Our 
guns are raised — but no! it is June, not October, and 
may the tender ducklings they' have left somewhere in 
the river reaches above, haunt our dreams if we disturb 
but one feather on their smooth, glossy backs. They 
have come down for their morning meal, and in one 
short half-hour will hurry back to their forest haunt; 
but hold ! they are off already, pattering along the water 
for many yards before they clear its surface. Perhaps 
the feed was not to their liking, or perhaps the heavy 
plunge of that great fish hawk may have startled them. 
A clumsy' bird he seems as with heavy flapping he rises 
above the trees, but as he joins his mate in the upper 
air, and both circling and wheeling, disappear over the 
forest, his^ptions^ecome mo^ graceful and his whis- 
tling “when, when, ptr-re-whea,” mellowed by the dis- 
tance sounds soft and pleasing. But we are losing time. 
Taking the stage road for our path and climbing a 
mighty hill (it would be called a mountain elsewhere) 
which reared its crest into the very clouds, we passed 
through a broad belt of heavy coniferous woods from 
whence arose a perfect chorus of bird voices, and com- 
ing out into the rays of the sun again, found ourselves 
in a large clearing with a small log house in the center, 
and a few out buildings of equally unpretending archi- 
tecture. A farm, the owner called it, but the steeply 
sloping fields thickly besprinkled with huge stumps and 
jagged rocks would have appaled the most stout hearted 
of our Mass, agriculturists, and certainly the use of the 
mowing machine which lay rusting in the door-yard did 
appear rather problematical. Leaping over the rough 
snake fence, we made our way quickly to the farther 
side of the clearing where on a former occasion my 
friend had found the bird we were in quest of, and sure 
enough, the next moment our ears were saluted by a 
rich, liquid warble that proceeded from a brush pile 
near at hand and the author of which we were not long 
in discerning as he sat upright on the topmost twig in 
the warm beams of the rising sun. One glance at his 
dark ashy head, black breast and yellow belly was suffi- 
cient, and after listening a moment or two the “bird in 
the hand” maxim came up so forcibly that we could 
wait no longer, and he fell dead to the ground, a victim 
to science. Scarcely was he consigned to the protect, 
ing envelopment of a paper cover when the notes of an- 
other were heard, and he also was shot, and thus pursu- 
ing our way, in a few hours we secured five specimens, 
three males and two females. "We found them almost 
invariably in the brush heaps along the wood edges, and 
when not singing they were most difficult to obtain as 
they would retreat into their fastnesses upon the slight- 
est alarm. The males sang usually from some com- 
manding twig either upon or over their brushy retreats 
in this respect differing from their near ally, the Mary- 
land yellow throat, which most frequently utters its 
notes while on or very near the ground. The song is a 
short trill preceded by a few n^o^ with a risiuT inflec- 
tion and is the finest Syfricofi&^performance that lam 
acquainted with. Its terminal portion bears a strou g 
resemblance to the gushing little efforts of the House 
Wren, but is even richer and more pleasing. On suc- 
ceeding occasions I have seen them mount up into the 
air to the height of several hundred feet, and sing for 
many seconds at a time, varying the ordinary warble 
by numerous supplementary trills and liquid notes, and 
this over, dropping perpendicularly with closed wings to 
the earth. The latter habit it shares in common with 
the Yellow Throat (G. trichas). Golden Crowned Thrush 
{Seiurus aurocapillus), and several others of the 
families. With all these it seems to he a morning and 
evening hymn to the Great Maker; a spontaneous 
effusion of the bird’s best feelings, and rarely per- 
formed more than once at each period of the day. The 
bird under consideration also differs quite essentially in 
ways from his cousin, the Yellow Throat. He is slower 
in motion, and less inquisitive in disposition. You 
catch a elimpse of his dusky form as he flits silently 
into his tangled retreat, and wait in vain for his reap- 
nearance. He will not come out again while you are 
there. Approach quietly — peer through the interlace- 
ment of twigs, and you see him sitting on some moss 
covered stump, or hopping sedately among the fallen 
leaves. Henever jerks his tail like the Yellow Throat, 
and seldom utters any note other than a faint lisp or a 
sharp petulant chirp. His song is continued for but a 
brief period. As soon as the cares of incubation are 
fairly under way, it ceases, or is heard at very infrequent 
and irregular intervals. The nest I have never found, 
but have several times surprised the old bird while 
feeding the young, which were barely able to fly, and 
in this latter duty both parents assist. 
Let us visit the scene in August. As we again leap 
the snake fence, how evident is the change that has 
come over the face of Nature. The rusty mowing ma- 
chine is rattling away merrily among the stumps, lay- 
ing low the luxuriant grasses, which well nigh conceal 
them; while the biush heaps along the wood edges are 
fairly buried out of sight under a net work of trailing, 
wild raspberry vines, laden with ripe fruit. A flock of 
wild pigeons, frightened from their repast by our ap- 
proach, rises with a prodigious whirring, and settling 
all over a dead stub peer at us curiously with out- 
stretched and oscillating necks; but withal seeming to 
understand that their “close season” of protection is 
not quite over. One well remembered retreat after an- 
othej is carefully scanned, but not a small bird of any 
species can be detected. Upon the point of giving up the 
search our attention is at last attracted by a faint medley 
