THE CONDOR 
1 Vol. Ill 
curved bill. He knows his ne.st is secure- 
ly hidden from us. A Spurred Towhee 
sings his pretense of a song from a 
fence post, Hitting from one perch to 
another, leading us on and on, till our 
feet turn naturally to the familiar path 
that leaps up the side canyon to the 
tank. 
We follow a well-beaten trail through 
thick-growing hushes of sumach, Yerba 
Santa, mimulus and wild currant. The 
sages, as we brush by, fill the air with a 
delicious fragrance. We pass between 
beds of violets, nemophilas, purple 
night-shade and wild heliotrope. The 
bushes are festooned with the delicate 
trailing wild pea. Yuccas stand sentinel 
high on the mountain side. The 
fuschia-flavored gooseberry is alive with 
the fairy forms of Allen’s and the Rufous 
Hummingbirds. These bits of irridiscent 
make you think the lovely scarlet 
flowers have taken to themselves wings. 
As the canyon narrows in, the rugged 
sides project with ledges of rock filled 
with fossils, only waiting the tap of 
geologist’s hammer. If this narrow 
gorge is a spot to fill the heart of the 
botanist or geologist with delight, what 
must it be to the bird student? 
The cry of the bluejay accompanies 
us as he laughs over o\ir failure to find 
his nest. The "Jacob, Jacob, Jacob,’’ of 
the woodpecker is dying away in the 
distance. The Turkey Vultures soar 
maje.stically above us, wliile a Blue- 
grey Gnatcatcher flits through the 
bush at our elbow. From away up the 
mountain side comes ringing the wild 
free song of the Wren-Tit, a song as ex- 
clusively Californian as is the odor of 
the sages. It is here, where the over- 
hanging ledges almost meet and the 
path drops into the rocky bed of the 
creek, passing from one boulder to an- 
other, that I found our Canyon Wren. 
Its surprise was so great, when it 
hopped out from a cranny of the rock 
and saw me, that it paused and looked 
me full in the face apparently noticing 
my color markings, as I was studying 
its own. Then with a harsh "squeel” 
away up the rocky ledge* it flitted, and 
was at once forgetful of the two pairs of 
glasses following its every movement. 
Its white throat gleamed in the sunlight 
as it darted from out a shady crevice 
and peered into every crack and seam, 
poking its curved bill among the mosses 
and lichens for the insects suited to its 
palate, but always careful to not betray 
its little home. 
From here it was a quick, short climb 
up the slanting bed-rock of the stream, 
and we stood at the entrance of a basin, 
shaped like a great bowl with a triangu- 
lar piece broken from one side. Be- 
tween banks of ferns and yellow oxalis, 
through this crack in the bowl, we en- 
ter. The basin is perhaps seventy-five 
feet across and a tank, built to supply 
the ranch with water, stands in the cen- 
ter. The walls are of sedimentary rock 
with alternate layers of sand-stone and 
pebbles, in tilted strata. They are 
fringed above with overhanging coty- 
ledons. 
The retort-shaped nests of the Cliff 
Svvallow fill the water-worn cavities 
near the top of the cliff. These were 
occupied, the chattering birds sailing 
above, and swooping down to express 
their disajiproval of intruders. The con- 
stant supply of water here afforded 
brings all the birds known in this sec- 
tion. From a natural seat, high above the 
tank, and partially concealed by the 
overhanging wall, one may sit for hours 
and never a moment but rich entertain- 
ment is afforded. 
The Flicker sounds a loud alarm as 
his wife comes dancing and bowing 
down the pipe that leads from the 
spring above, to take a drink. Al- 
though we became statues she heeds 
her lord’s command, and does not ven- 
ture. Valley Oxiail peer cautiously 
over the cliff and seeing us, slip noise- 
lessly down to a pool below for their 
drink. Linnets, Wren-Tits, Bush-Tits, 
vireos and numberless others come and 
go, kee ing our eyes and ears on the 
alert. 
{to be continued). 
