94 
BY THE WAYSIDE 
color and their breasts became yellow 
and their feathers were tipped with white 
and brown. They are very tame. It is 
very nice to have them around because 
of their songs and of their beautiful 
color. 
Yours truly, 
Minnie Fulte. 
Wisconsin Prize Letter 
Mazomanie, Wis'., April 27, 1911. 
My Dear Wayside:— 
I think that the meadow lark is one 
of the prettiest birds there are. Their 
song sounds to me, “I see you, you can’t 
see me.’ They usually build their nests 
in brush or hierh grass. 
o o 
Last summer I had an experience with 
a meadow lark. While I was fishing I 
heard a noise. I wondered what it could 
be. After I had looked quite a while 
I found a little meadow lark. I watched 
it for a long while. Then pretty soon 
the mother came along. She flew over 
to a near-by telephone post. There she 
sat and scolded me. In the afternoon 
T found another one. It was about the 
same size as the other. All that after¬ 
noon I looked for its nest but didn’t find 
it. 1 still think that its nest was there 
some place. 
1 am going to keep a watchout because 
maybe they might build there again. 
* Yours truly, 
Winfred Johnson, 
Age ten years. 
Olney, Ill., April 25, 1911. 
Dear Wayside:— 
T will write a letter about a 
pair of phoebes that has a nest on 
our porch. When we moved here last 
fall T saw a nest upon the porch. 
As it was built so nicely T took it down 
and put it with some other nests up¬ 
stairs. This spring I saw the phoebes 
looking around the porch and I knew it 
was their nest. I took it and put it back 
where it was. The phoebe, after chirp¬ 
ing around awhile began repairing the 
nest. Now there are five little white 
eggs (about the size of a catbird’s) in 
the nest. The phoebe is very tame and 
will not fly off the nest when we are on 
the porch. Its nest is made of grass 
and mud lined with finer grasses 
Its song is a whistling repetition of 
its name. They arrived here March the 
tenth. Yours truly, 
Violet Monts, 
Olney Ill. 
A March Ramble 
1 stood on the bridge at noonday, 
A beautiful March day noon. 
A breeze blew soft from the southland 
And nature seemed all in tune. 
1 he snow sank slow ’neath the sunshine 
And trickled in tiny rills 
Adown the sloping creek bank 
And down our coasting hills. 
How the sunshine flashed in the ripples 
And glinted the watenveeds o’er 
As they waved their feathery branches 
Just out of reach from the shore. 
1 hen I looked for my friends, the song- 
sters. 
There surely must be some bir Is 
Telling their joy in the sunshine 
In songs too sweet for words. 
“Sweetheart, sweetheartie,” sang chicka¬ 
dee, 
And an old crow cawed, ’tis true, 
And I saw the jay and the nuthatch, 
But not my favorite blue. 
But I tho’t, “he is surely with us 
Safe hid where my eyes cannot see:” 
But it never seems just like spring-time 
l ill the blue bird sings to me. 
—Ivy C. Fisher 
