12 TH Ee AU DU BION] BoUsI pis 
With so few people in Door County so early in the season, we called, 
for friendly company, on those who lived the whole winter in the north. 
These folks are the salt of the earth. On our way past orchards, grain fields, 
farms, woods and country roads we saw the Bobolinks, Redwings, King- 
birds, Killdeer, Bluebirds, Mourning Doves, Goldfinches and Meadowlarks, 
but only one Cedar Waxwing had arrived. At Windsweep, where the 
Powers’ white house on a hill is banked with pink apple orchards, a Robin 
was nesting in the white lilacs, a wren sang madly from the clothes post, 
and a bird nest was hanging from inside the Tribune metal mailbox. To 
photograph the pink apple blossoms, Will Powers took us on a wild, curving 
drive around and through the orchards, scattering Brown Thrashers, Cat- 
birds, and a Bluebird to the pink blossoms like a Roger Tory Peterson 
painting. In the house, Mary Powers told us that Will had to lift a new 
fawn in his arms in the orchard and move it to the grass in the next row 
of trees, because it wouldn’t leave where the doe had put it, even with 
machinery and men coming along. 
We told this story to the Frank Sivers when they invited us for cake 
and coffee and to see their birds. He capped our story with the report of 
the deer and two fawns that went through a picture window in a Wisconsin 
house when the family was eating supper, and then out another window, 
with the twin fawns dutifully following their mother through shattered 
glass. Speaking of glass, Mr. Sivers somberly announced he was tired of 
picking up dead birds outside their picture window. “Songbirds?” we 
ventured, as we admired the Purple Finches, Cardinals, Rose-breasted 
Grosbeaks, and a Redwing on their nearby feeder. ‘“Ruffed Grouse,” he 
replied grimly, “and a huge Pileated Woodpecker — the biggest we ever 
saw.” We were as stunned as the birds at these wilderness losses from the 
impact of civilization. He cheered us with the news of 14 Rose-breasted 
Grosbeaks alighting together on someone’s lawn. 
Half reluctant to believe all we heard, we returned to a surprise of 
our own. From the dining porch I raised my voice excitedly in welcome 
as a porcupine waddled heavily into the garden. Hearing me, he veered 
off behind the stone wall. Almost instantly a large gray and white bird, 
possibly eleven inches, leaped from a shrub onto the green lawn where 
the porcupine had passed. I found myself calling wildly to Dr. Brookes in 
the kitchen, “Come quick and see the Mockingbird on your lawn!” She 
says that at the moment she wondered about me. Confused? In this land 
ot the porcupine, the northern lights, the Lady’s Slipper, the Wisconsin 
gray fox, and with Washington Island in full view of the front porch, it 
couldn't be a Mockingbird — the toast of Florida and the South. What 
was it? A Loggerhead Shrike in gray and white? A Northern Shrike? 
A fantastic gull? Immediately we went for the books. Dr. Brookes came 
back with five pounds of Birds of America and I ran for Peterson’s Guide. 
We checked every detail, even the bill, the lores, the wing coverts, the 
feet, the white patches in wings and tail so noticeable in flight. Dr. Brookes 
read quietly and steadily. I covered with binoculars. ‘He’s back in the 
shrub.” “He’s on the lawn again.” “He’s coming closer.” “He has to be a 
Shrike.” “He can’t be a Shrike — they’re short-legged and heavy-headed. 
This bird is long-legged and prances about very alert.” Every detail 
checked out. We had a Mockingbird! But we couldn’t tell anybody, or they 
wouldn’t believe us any more than we believed Mr. Sivers about the deer. 
We finally confessed our find to our nearest neighbors a mile away. 
Mrs. Ellstrom nodded understandingly. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” 
