8 THY A U;D'U BON, BU UD ED Eis 
Over the pasture we saw an American bittern and crows flying. Many of 
these birds were still singing though it was now the middle of July. The 
chat had lots of company, birds as charming as he. What is more lovely 
than a bluebird or indigo bunting in full color? 
This June while at Edinburgh, Indiana, a friend took me exploring to 
many interesting places around her home. Here the chats were common for 
they were heard in a number of different places. While I was there they 
seemed to be quite secretive, but she wrote me later that they had become 
much more friendly. 
Without doubt there is much more to learn about the chat, but these 
have been my observations up to this time. 
Chicago, Illinois 
ft ft fl 
In the Eyes of the Beholder 
By ALMA M. HUNNEMAN 
HUNDREDS of birds seen! One to two hundred species! We need only to 
hear of a find, to seize notebook and binoculars, and dash for the bus 
that will take us to it. Behavior, haunt, color, habitat, song! We marvel 
at the beauty of color in the prothonotary warbler, wax triumphant before 
a hideout, and chuckle over the gait of the sandhill crane. We exclaim at 
the daintiness of the hummingbird, or go into ecstasies over the streamlined 
body-form and the streamlined flight-formations and maneuvers of the 
cormorant. And who of us can not dream when the wood thrush sings? 
We believe in birds as those persons believe in fairies who know how to 
find them; but did you know that there are children who do not look, 
ever, for fairies? Did you know that they see no birds because, for them, 
there are none? Did you know that they will never think of them, never 
know that there are any, unless someone brings to them the picture of 
sky and wind and rain and grass and trees? Did you know that they 
will never find birds until someone leads them to their haunts—and to 
Believing? 
The children whom I know best live in old black houses that list 
crazily, and in ugly brick buildings that house an incredible number of 
tenants. Their trees and their grass-plots can be counted on the fingers 
of one hand. Their garbage cans are often coverless washtubs ringed about 
with discard from the kitchen, spoiled lemons and the leavings of the 
wine-making. Toddlers may be seen scrambling about in search of treasure, 
among the heaps of dirty paper, ashes, and even garbage, in the empty 
lot next door or across the street. Their parents, in many instances, are 
too used to the big blue flies that boom and zoom warningly or suggestively 
to pay them any heed. Of these, none look for anything more beautiful 
than has been hunted or found by those at home or among their friends 
and neighbors. 
The children do not play in “The Prairie”, a square which they have 
so designated because it is empty of buildings. They do not know that it 
could be made into a place to play, any more than they know about the 
