FOREST AND STREAM 
Some Familiar Early! Birds 
By Elmer Russell Gregor. 
504 
as in his own home, and if the drugs are poor 
and the food coarse it is not the fault of the doc¬ 
tor. The nursing may not be as skillful, but the 
patient usually recovers, which is the main thing. 
The city doctor usually looks down on his 
brother of the bush, but the city doctor usually 
neglects the fact that the other man is dealing 
with conditions under which he couldn’t work at 
all. The man summoned by telephone picks up 
his little black bag and steps into his auto, but the 
man in the north may have a trip of over a week, 
and in place of the little bag he carries a whole 
pack sack of drugs. The doctor of the north may 
have just returned from a long trip and find a 
smashed up prospector with a fractured leg lying 
in a bunk. Then it is that the bush doctor shows 
what he can do. Assisted only by his orderly 
and whoever else he may be able to get, he re¬ 
duces that fracture. Anyone who has ever seen 
any frontier surgery knows what this means. The 
bush doctor often has to work under conditions 
which would cause his city brother to give up the 
case at once as hopeless, and there has been many 
a recovery as a result of the skill of these same 
bush doctors. 
Nearly anyone who has traveled in the north 
has looked after sick men, and knows how hard 
it is to coax a sick man to take condensed milk 
when there is nothing else in sight. 
There are doctors and doctors. There is the 
good little man who, fresh from a city hospital, 
stays just long enough to recover from the trip 
in and then talks about his “experience.” There 
is also the real northern doctor, profane, hard¬ 
working and possibly quick-tempered, just as 
ready to help build a shack as he is to write a 
simple prescription or to be both nurse and doc¬ 
tor in a case of smallpox. He is alert, always 
watching for the dread scurvy and treating it 
with nothing better than tinned potatoes, and 
sometimes without any vegetables, guarding 
camps against typhoid, making long trips to help 
sick Indians, and acting as the friend of every 
man in the country. 
Once when I was in the Flying Post district 
I was at dinner with a party of Government engi¬ 
neers I had met, when a strongly built man of 
medium height came out of the bush toward us. 
The engineers hailed him with a yell of welcome, 
and when I heard the name I recognized it as one 
known from there north for skill and nerve. R. A. 
Smith, M. D., is known and respected by every 
old-timer in the country. There has never been 
a book written about him, but somewhere in the 
north he is still doing the work he was graduated 
to do, relieving pain, healing wounds, and fighting 
death in a man’s country, where all fights are 
fought to a finish. 
South Carolina to Have More Fish. 
The hatchery recently located at Orangebury, S. C., is 
now in course of construction and when completed ar¬ 
rangements will be made to undertake fish culture opera¬ 
tions in the state on an extensive scale. In addition to 
the black basses, sun fishes, crappies and allied species, 
for stocking inland waters, the bureau plans to take up 
the propagation of the shad on the Edisto, Pee Dee, and 
other rivers where the run of shad will justify such 
operations. It is also proposed to conduct experiments in 
the artificial propagation of the sturgeon at points where 
spawning fish can be secured. It is hoped that with 
the co-operation of the state fisheries authorities and the 
legislative power of the state government the efforts 
■which the bureau proposes to put forth will be the 
means of materially increasing the fish supply in South 
Carolina waters. 
Spring is heralded in many ways, but to the 
bird lover the first real assurance is the warble of 
the bluebird in the leafless orchard. True, the 
hardy little song sparrow may have been declar¬ 
ing it for a fortnight, but his song, beautiful and 
inspiring as it is, has a suggestion of blustery 
March winds, and we fear to accept its prophe¬ 
cies. When we hear the bluebird we know that 
winter has passed. What a treasure-chest of 
memories is unlocked by its gentle notes! They 
carry us back to boyhood, to the old farm, to the 
barefoot days beside the trout stream, to all the 
best things in our lives. He is calloused, indeed, 
who can listen to such a song unmoved. It is a 
message of hope and cheer, a personal greeting 
from a friend whom we have learned to love. 
We follow eagerly while the little blue-coated 
songster makes a thorough inspection of the or¬ 
chard. He visits each tree, stopping to peer in¬ 
tently into the hollow limb which sheltered his 
brood of the previous season. Some days later 
we find him carrying materials for a new nest, 
and then we are introduced to his mate. She is 
a dainty little lady, a demure coquette, who does 
not hesitate to flash her charms before a rival 
cavalier who has ventured upon the trysting 
place. Then follows a furious battle, and we are 
well pleased when the bold intruder is finally 
driven away. 
About this time we may expect to hear the rol¬ 
licking song of the robin: “Cheer-a-lup, cheer-a- 
lee, cheer-a-lup, cheer-a-lee, cheer-a-lee, cheer-a- 
lee.” What an inspiration for the day’s work! 
The robin is the guardian of the dawn. His is 
usually the first note to proclaim the day, the last 
to drop from the chorus at dusk. He is an opti¬ 
mist, and he is beloved, therefore, by all who 
know him. It has always seemed to me that the 
robin has a striking personality. There is that 
about him which instantly commands respect and 
admiration. If he has any mean traits I have 
failed to discover them, and as our acquaintance 
has been long and intimate, I claim the right to 
eulogize him. Surely the few cherries he takes 
from the over-burdened trees is slight compensa¬ 
tion for his jolly companionship. He is distinctly 
a bird of the countryside and the town; except 
late in the autumn when he roams the woods in 
large flocks. His nest is often placed above our 
very door, and we count him as one of the fam¬ 
ily. I have in mind one of these birds which has 
returned to us four seasons. We know him by 
his song, which differs from all the songs I have 
ever heard. As the variation is unusual, and in¬ 
teresting, therefore, to bird students, I have de¬ 
cided to set it down: “Ter-weet-a-weet, ter-weet- 
a-weet, cheer-a-lup, cheer-a-lee, cheer-a-lup, cheer- 
a-lee, ter-weet-a-weet.” 
Next in the order of my affections is the ever- 
lovable phoebe. Here is a little sombre-robed bird 
with a snappy, energetic “song,” which has won 
its way into the hearts of all who have ever 
heard it. “Phoebe, phoebe, phoebe pewit,” comes 
the thrilling cry from the roof of the barn. We 
look up in ecstasy, and call “the folks” from the 
house to see the first phoebe of the season. It is 
the phoebe which brightens our days on the trout 
streams. You will be sure to find it somewhere 
along the brook; perhaps sitting on a fence rail, 
perhaps darting from beneath the wagon bridge, 
but wherever you find it you will recall having 
seen it at the same spot many times before. 
“Phoebe, phoebe, phoebe pewit” it cries impa¬ 
tiently as you attempt to pass, and if you are 
country-bred you will stop and look with misty 
eyes upon this little friend of your boyhood days. 
Many years may have passed since you last heard 
that call outside the little window of the old farm¬ 
house, but you have not forgotten it, and as you 
pucker your lips and attempt to whistle a reply 
you feel a strange tightening of the heartstrings. 
Down at the pond the red-wing blackbirds have 
returned to the marsh. “Con-ker-ee,” calls the 
male bird as he balances on a swaying stalk, and 
from somewhere in the rushes w§ hear the chucks 
of his sober-colored spouse. Then the happy pair 
rise into the air and fly away to join a jolly com¬ 
pany at the other end of the pond. The red¬ 
wings are sociable birds, and their voices blend 
harmoniously with the “peeping” of the hylas and 
the booming of the bull-frogs, in the early spring 
chorus at the border of the marshland. 
In the pastures and open fields at this season 
we hear the clear, flute-like notes of the meadow¬ 
lark : “Whee-ye-o-ee, ee-yer-o-yer.” This, too, is 
a familiar song of our boyhood. How often the 
ringing notes have greeted us as we dragged our 
reluctant feet toward the little white school- 
house. At evening we flushed the singer, as we 
went to bring the cows from the pasture lot. “Up 
with the larks” has a real significance for those 
who have worked on a farm. 
About the time the bluebirds come to the or¬ 
chard the purple grackles return to the pine grove. 
To the average country lad they are “black¬ 
birds,” and all too often they find their way into 
the proverbial pie. Their “song” is composed 
of a series of rasping squawks, squeaks and gur¬ 
gles which defy reproduction. The male utters 
this ludicrous serenade to his lady-love, while he 
is going through all sorts of weird contortions. 
He ruffles his feathers, droops his wings, and 
acts very much as if he were about to become sea¬ 
sick. It is a laughable performance, but this is 
a case where love seems to be blind, or perhaps 
deaf, and the idol of his dreams actually suc¬ 
cumbs to the charm of her lover’s voice. 
There are several other birds which might prop¬ 
erly be included in the list of early arrivals, but I 
have mentioned only the old-time favorites. After 
them will come the main army of migrants, and 
we shall see birds of brilliant plumage and hear 
songs which, from a musical standpoint, will far 
surpass the modest efforts of our orchard friends. 
However, I am quite sure there will be none 
which will thrill us quite as much as the soft 
warble of the first bluebird, or the pert call of 
the phoebe on the peak of the old barn. 
