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34 BY THE WAYSIDE. 
haps it is this unusual combination that 
makes his work so lasting. His love of nat¬ 
ure gave him an inexhaustible subject, his 
poetic talent helped him to find the best ex¬ 
pression for his thoughts, his philosophy 
gave the human touch which we all enjoy and 
look for in his writings, even though we are 
not interested in his birds or his flowers. 
Thoreau was not given to enthusiasms, but 
he greatly admired three men: his Indian 
guide in Mqine, Walt Whitman, the poet, and 
John Brown, the hero-martyr. His message 
to us as he has left it in his works is a large 
one, and all of us can find something of in¬ 
terest in him, something always fresh and 
new. Especially is this true of Walden, 
which has been called the most valuable 
literary production of its kind ever written; 
it belongs to that small list of works which 
are to be read once a year. O. G. L. 
Some Observations in Montana, 
Dear Wayside: How odd it would be to 
have a bird paper here in Butte named “By 
the Wayside” —here where roads are sandy 
paths taken at random across the barren 
hills and where wayside shrubbery and 
hedgerows are unknown! I cannot tell you 
how much I miss Wisconsin’s wooded 
country roadsides and shaded forest lanes. 
Except for a scanty growth of dwarfed pines 
on the mountain sides and two little valleys 
bordered by thickets of willow and hazel, 
I have found no trees within two hours 
walk from Butte. To-day I went out to one 
of these valleys known as Brown’s Gulch, 
and I shall tell you in brief of my walk. 
When I started at six o’clock, the sun 
hung like a fiery ball in the clouds of sul¬ 
phur fumes from Butte’s smelters that en¬ 
veloped the mountains to the east. The air 
was extremely chilly (we had snow the other 
week) so I walked rapidly through the town. 
There was not a bird note to be heard 
whereas in Wisconsin and Illinois there 
would have been scores. The first specimen 
I saw was a bluebird—a real true bluebird, 
blue above and blue below. He was sitting 
on a rock, a few rods outside of the city 
limits, where he seemed to have spent the 
night. When I got within twenty feet he 
flew up reluctantly and a female that I had 
not noticed before joined him from a rock 
near by. Another female followed. Then 
another, and two males—late risers, 1 con¬ 
cluded, like Buttes’ citizens. They all seemed 
newly awakened, flew hither and thither 
awhile and then, evidently deciding that one 
perch on a sagebrush covered and rock 
strewn desert was as good as another, settled 
down at random. As there were no buildings 
close by and as the sagebrush is only a foot 
tall I suppose these birds had nested on 
the outskirts of the town and had resorted 
to the valley after rearing their brood. 
This mountain bluebird is of the same 
gentle disposition as the eastern species and 
utters a similar soft call. 
Associated with the bluebirds I found the 
prairie horned lark—a rather common 
species here in Montana. Both species 
caught insects on the wing and whenever a 
bluebird and a lark happened to get any¬ 
where near each other the bluebird invari¬ 
ably chased the lark until he resumed his 
perch on the ground. 
A little further, on a mud flat bordering a 
little stream I found a least sandpiper. Save 
for its “ peep ” I should have passed un¬ 
awares. As I came nearer the sandpiper’s 
call became very loud and excited and no 
wonder for it was the “danger signal” to her 
little ones. I sat down on the sand about a 
rod away and waited. Soon one long-legged, 
woolly little sandpiper went running along 
on the mud from where he had squatted at 
the signal. Then about fifty feet away an¬ 
other started up and soon another. The 
mother bird ran, calling continually, toward 
a little patch of grass. Immediately I saw 
a little bunch of down bob up near her. The 
mother called softly then turned and ran to 
meet another little sandpiper, taking him to 
the same spot. After she had gathered her 
four little ones about her I heard her repeat 
a soft two-note call,—evidently a token of 
maternal love. It reminded me of the call 
of a cluck after she had gathered her little 
ones safely under her wings. 
After a few moments the family separated 
again. The mother bird ran about picking 
