Hebe OsUeB Gon, Bell Bal LN 15 
at the station the plans for the forenoon, we hunted for warblers in the 
near-by ravine, or for terns and gulls on the lake front. The first stop was 
formerly at the home of Mr. Lyons to see his banding station. Not only 
were there many birds in his traps but the woods and ravine were full of 
various species. Perhaps we next went through the rain to a very wet 
grassy field to hear the western meadowlark pouring forth his rich song 
from a tree and allowing us all to watch him as long as our time permitted. 
Or we went several miles to a marsh to see the yellow-headed blackbirds 
where they nested. Then a long tramp through Warbler Glen, where one 
year we sat on the grassy bank just off Sheridan Road and watched the 
flock of a dozen species of warblers in the willows, just as though we were 
in a theatre, spectators to an absorbing opera. I still see vividly the rare 
Kentucky warbler, posing at the foot of the big tree in the bright sunshine. 
But at noon we were always under the pines at the Waukegan flats. In 
former years many charming people, who no longer did much field work, 
joined us there for the picnic dinner. Mr. Lyons’ jugs of rhubarb wine 
added much to the pleasure. Mrs. Baldwin was accused one year of turning 
by its aid the yellow-legs in the distance into long-billed curlews, to the 
great excitement of some of us who thought Mrs. Baldwin could never be 
wrong. We always counted on the piping plovers along the beach, and 
sometimes there were many other shore birds, difficult to find elsewhere. 
Thinking of these pleasant memories and knowing how different the 
same day would be here, I looked forward to it with only placid anticipations 
of pleasure. There were to be but three units doing a full day’s work in 
the field. I was lucky to be going with Mrs. Guy Bonney in her car. I had 
been her companion on many field trips and knew she is not only good in 
her identifications but is indefatigable. Secretly I was somewhat appalled 
when she said, “Shall we go out to Carpenter’s Park early to hear the 
whip-poor-will?” We had been there only the night before to hear it sing, 
and so felt sure if we arrived before daybreak we should get its song again. 
She called me at 3:45 A.M., and in half an hour I was standing outside the 
door of our hotel, waiting in the night for her to drive up. “Well,” I 
thought as I stood under the stars and watched the decadent old moon high 
in the heavens, “this is certainly different.” 
By 4:30 we were parked in Carpenter’s Park in a place reminding me 
of the parking place at Maple Lake. She put on her boots and I finished 
my breakfast while waiting for the first glimmer of light. We had heard 
the nighthawk in the city and so began the day’s list with him. Presently, 
far in the distance and not near at hand as we had expected, we heard the 
whip-poor-will, eerie in the dark and lonely wood. The other birds began to 
wake with their songs. A wood thrush “twirled three notes and made a 
star.” By five o’clock we had identified more than fifteen birds by their songs. 
The day was perfect, warm and sunny. The woods were so full of birds 
and their songs that we were bewildered as we knew we could not stay long, 
having many other places to visit. Mrs. Bonney knows the birds by their 
songs, which was a great help, as I have to re-learn nearly every song each 
spring. We found many species that would be prizes for the Chicago 
group — Bell’s vireos, Carolina wrens, Kentucky warblers, Acadian fly- 
