pier ieee 2 OSU BG) N= 1 BrUielete EelaN. 43 
The complete list of birds seen in this not apparently exceptional city 
neighborhood for six months is sixty-five. (Other warblers seen this 
season on the north side, but not observed in the Indian Boundary Park 
region, were the Mourning Warbler, Ovenbird, Blackpoll, Black-throated 
Blue, and Black and White.) Perhaps the prettiest sight of the season 
was a white-blossoming tree literally full of Wilson Warblers, near the 
pergola. I particularly delighted in stalking the white-crowned sparrow. 
He was very shy and difficult to observe, since he kept his distance on the 
white crushed-stone paths of the park. One fine day I hada close-up view 
when he was hiding in a white-blossoming tree on the northwest corner of 
the park. The tree, by the way, earlier was occupied by the ruby- 
crowned kinglet. The white-throat we also saw feeding beneath a bush. 
We have now approached the sacred vicinity called “‘Mockingbird 
Area.’ One morning I saw a dark bird on the lawn with white markings 
on his wings, strangely reminiscent of winter days in Florida. I was 
startled, as my glance over the lawn had come to be quite cursory. I 
have the habit, by the way, when I make a good find, of dodging behind 
bushes and making a dash for our apartment breakfast-room. The per- 
formance, which must appear strange alike to the birds and to our neigh- 
bors, has a double object—that of getting the bird-glasses and telling 
Mrs. Fulton. “I’ve found a mockingbird—a mockingbird!” I shouted. 
Here ends the anecdote; otherwise I might betray who used the glasses 
next. Suffice it to say we had several observations, with and without 
glasses, as we saw him at least once each day from March 13th to 
rath. 
In March the fields west of the cottonwood row were decidedly 
marshy. Here we found the sora and the bittern. The sora I could only 
observe on the wing, although I made several observations. The black 
head and yellow bill, however, made it easily distinguished. The bittern 
I had stirred up, and noticed, had alighted near the path on the west side 
of the cottonwoods, which the children call the “jungle path” on account 
of the high weeds and grasses. The next morning I was looking for him, 
but was none the less startled when I did see him. I was standing still 
when I heard a slight sound. Looking a few feet in front of me, to the 
left of the path, I could barely distinguish his outline. It was early in the 
morning and the sun’s rays were slanting. He was moving his long neck 
around in a leisurely way, not quite striking the perpendicular posture 
in which we most often see him pictured. He let me approach to withina 
few feet before he took flight. 
Near the center of the row of cottonwoods there was a slight break 
through which one could walk. Here, in the fork of a tree, a mourning 
dove had built her nest. First, I spied the mother bird on her nest— 
several days later I peeked into it and saw a young bird within. That 
_ evening I discovered the road builders had driven a truck through at this 
point and had bruised the tree and damaged the nest. A few twigs anda 
