6 TA EAU DUB OsN Se BrUc a Calan 
other, caring little where leads the road or when they return, but find- 
ing content. 
Perhaps it is a tramp in the early morning across the dry prairie 
and through a bustling prairie-dog settlement for an al fresco break- 
fast on the sandy bank of a little stream bordered with cottonwoods 
and willows. What if the packs are heavy? The light, cool air of the 
sunrise time makes walking with a burden really delightful. The King- 
birds, taking their insect breakfast a la cafeteria, keep up an unmusical 
but not displeasing riot of sound. The delightful whistle of the 
Meadowlarks seems to come from everywhere and the Mockingbird, 
performing reckless acrobatic stunts in the air above the top of a huge 
cottonwood, flings to the world with carefree abandon his matchless 
medley of songs. Dickcissel, the diminutive optimist-bird of the way- 
side sings his rather monotonous little song with forgivable egotism 
as he sits on a bush “by the side of the road” and is a friend to man. 
Flapping from mound to mound, the Burrowing Owls send inquiring 
glances at you and make their funny little bows before dropping into 
a hole as you approach. You digress a little to examine the sedges in 
a small, marshy puddle and listen to the pleasant, liquid song of the 
Red-wing, which gives one the sweet-sour, shivery sensation experi- 
enced when eating the leaves of the sheep sorrel. 
Among the willows on the bank of the sluggish creek, you prepare 
a tiny Indian cook-fire and a bed of coals right for the frying pan is 
soon ready. The bacon is tossed in and the air becomes filled with the 
delectable odor which in the midst of civilization is uttery commonplace 
and sometimes unattractive. Together you spread out the remainder 
of your luggage and while you arrange the tin plates and cups your 
companion frys eggs and pancakes—not the regulation, made-to-meas- 
ure pancakes such as you buy in the cafés, but a new and individual 
variety such as he alone prepares and turns over with an upward toss 
of the pan. Then you eat. You eat everything to the last bit, topping 
off with bar chocolate from the capacious pockets of the wool shirt. 
Contentment’? Well, something like it! 
Perhaps you get out before the sunrise some morning in July or 
August. In the hush that precedes the dawn you build your diminutive 
cook-fire on the bank of some tiny rivulet and listen to the mating 
song of the Wood Thrush—those clear, wonderful low notes with the 
scarcely perceptible trill. Nothing is quite so beautiful in its calm, 
Sweet sadness. Soon the Blue Jay appears with his imperious but not 
discordant cry. The Chat takes it up, and in a moment the Thrasher. 
In the distance you hear the summer song of the Cardinal. The Mourn- 
ing Dove tells you again and again of his perfect contentment. Even 
the Wren in the orchard above seems less sprightly than usual. The 
breeze is not yet stirring; the very atmosphere is subdued. It is the 
typical midsummer morning, so different from the great, throbbing 
daybreak of the spring. 
Your sputtering little smudge seems almost sacrilege; you feel as 
if the birds alone should greet the sun. You dispose of some ham 
and eggs perhaps, and settle back in the sand in a spot free from poison 
