The Road-runner 
covers a brimful basket of very surly youngsters, and even the two young¬ 
est members of the quartette click their mandibles threateningly. On 
the 24th the young birds are still in no wise prepared to leave the nest, 
but one bumptious youngster, and not the oldest either, manages to 
heave his pot-belly over the edge of the nest, where he blinks at me 
belligerently (no pun intended). 
The mother bird coughs and wheezes upon the ground, and I see 
the purpose of this strange note at last. The bird is pretending to dis¬ 
gorge some lately captured tidbit. The performance is very realistic, 
even descending to the paroxysmal movements of eructation, the at¬ 
tendant contact of the bill with ground—where the Barmicidian morsel 
is deposited—and the ensuing relief. The coughing accompanies the 
effort, and makes it* paroxysmic. Splendid! The ruse is too frequently 
repeated, however, to be convincing. Moreover, the coughing is some¬ 
times given, as on previous occasions, half-heartedly, and without the 
attendant disgorgement play. 
On the first day of July, which was my next chance to pay the nest 
a visit, nothing as to the whereabouts of the youngsters was discovered. 
I suspect, however, that they were “freezing” in the depths of the foliage, 
for I thought I detected the old bird giving hasty words of caution before 
she sailed, magnificently, from the tree-top. 
Of the Road-runner in captivity a separate chapter should be written. 
It really is a most engaging pet. Always original, whimsical, grotesque, 
it exhibits also a marked affection for its master, as well as a friendly 
regard for humans in general. Indeed, if the birds were properly en¬ 
couraged, instead of being systematically frightened, they would adapt 
themselves very willingly to the ways of men. Mr. and Mrs. William 
Otte, of Santa Barbara, have befriended the Road-runners along the 
Riviera crest, until they have come to haunt their place continually; 
and once a pair nested successfully in their garage. Mrs. Grinnell, of 
Pasadena, kept a Road-runner which had the freedom of the house, and 
which kept her friends in a fever of interest by its artless, eccentric ways. 
Most curious was its custom of backing closely into a corner for the night, 
with its tail held bolt upright along the wall. 
Captivity reveals the fact that the bird is not closely dependent 
upon water. It will drink only at intervals of three or four days; but 
when it does indulge, it drinks copiously,—fills up as for a long sojourn 
in a distant desert. As for food, it is a good “rustler,” and keeps the 
place clear of mice, beetles, slugs, and cockroaches. Unfortunately, 
nestling birds have to be kept out of harm’s way—and chickens too, as 
like as not. If proffered a small bird, even though adult, the Road- 
runner will bolt it feathers and all; and the fact that it does not eject 
11 47 
