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"Wat een klein mormel", zei de spoorwegman, maar ik hoorde al liefkoozing in zijn ruwe uitdrukking. We hadden ons doel bereikt en gingen tevreden heen. Of de spriet tevreden was, dat zou ik niet durven zeggen, in ieder geval had hij een goede oefening gehad. En geschaad heeft 't hem niet, want hij heeft er een vriend door gewonnen. De spoorwegman wist mij zelfs te vertellen, dat hij later een troepje van kleine zwarte vogeltjes langs den slootkant heeft zien hollen en dat kunnen niet anders geweest zijn dan de jonge sprietjes. Hij had er echt schik in.

Het vinden van een sprietennest is altijd een meevallertje. Het ligt diep onder 't gras, de grashalmen zijn er over heen gebogen. Zoo als 't bekende versje zegt: "In Mei leggen alle vogeltjes een ei, behalve de kwartel en de spriet, die leggen in de Meimaand niet" wacht onze vogel met broeden, totdat hij in de hooge Junigrassen een veilige nestplaats vindt.

Als in Februari de kievieten van hun korte winterreis terugkeeren in 't weiland, dan ziet het er veel minder frisch uit, dan toen zij het in den voorwinter verlieten. De oude grasblaadjes zijn allemaal wit geworden en liggen geplakt tegen den natten grond. Hier en daar groent wat mos, doch meestal is dat zelf weer overdekt met duizenden roodbruine draadfijne stengeltjes met sporendoosjes er bovenop. Enkele verwaaide madeliefjes met bleekgele hartjes en waterige witte lintbloempjes vertoonen zich langs den greppelkant, maar zij lijken eer te behooren tot den ouden herfst dan tot de nieuwe lente.

Sneeuwklokjes bloeien in onze weiden niet, dat zijn eigenlijk niet anders dan gekweekte tuinplantjes en als je ze vindt langs dijken en wegen, dan zijn ze weggeloopen uit de boerentuintjes, met rommel op den dijk gebracht, misschien ook uit aardigheid door een kind daar geplant.

De kievit kent den tijd van 't jaar echter aan nog andere dingen dan aan de kleur van 't gras. Hij ziet de spreeuwen in hun donker voorjaarskleed, dat, even als 't zijne, schittert in alle kleuren van den regenboog; hij hoort de leeuwerik zingen hoog in de lucht en toen hij onder de grasstengels rondpikte naar kleine grauwe slakjes, heeft hij gezien, dat onder het grauwe gras de wei al heelemaal groen is, de jonge spruiten behoeven nog maar een halven centimeter hooger te komen, dan is de lente in het land. Het eene jaar gebeurt het wat vroeger dan 't andere, maar midden Maart is de zaak toch meestal in orde.

Het eerst komen aan de beurt de zonnige plekjes en de greppelkanten, de zuidhelling van den dijk, de noordoevers van de slooten. Wij hadden vroeger een hekdam, die liep precies oost-west en had dus een zuidhelling en een noordhelling. Welnu, de plantengroei aan beide kanten van dien dam verschilde zoo, dat we de eene helling Nizza en de andere Sewerowotstotsnoj noemden. Op den laatsten naam waren we niet weinig grootsch en nieuwe vrienden moesten gemiddeld een half jaar in hun Atlas snuffelen, eer ze recht wisten, wat er mee bedoeld werd.

Wat hebben we daar op Nizza heerlijke uren doorgebracht. De sloot leverde een onuitputtelijken voorraad waterdieren. Het oeverrandje, dat vol lag met kleine brokjes riet en rommel, was al warm en droog, nog voordat het ijs uit 't water was verdwenen en dan kwamen daar goudbronzen oeverkevertjes rondloopen, pas uitgebroken uit hun winterverblijf.

Zoo'n kever-overwinteringshol vonden we eens tegen den hekpaal, twee decimeter diep onder den grond. We waren te weten gekomen--ik weet waarlijk niet hoe--dat je in den winter aan zuidkanten van boomen en palen onder den grond heele regimenten kevers kon vinden, die daar gezellig overwinteren. Nu leken ons de hekpalen van Nizza al zeer bijzonder voor dat doel geschikt. Wij aan 't graven en jawel hoor, we vonden een heele kluit van kevers, allemaal loopkevers, van die lange, slanke torren met ranke pooten: een veertigtal van vier verschillende soorten.

Daar had je de groote groene gouden loopkever, de vriend mijner jeugd, dan nog een heel donkergroene met zes rijen koperen knoopen op zijn rug, waar ik later nog wel eens van hoop te vertellen, dan nog een iets kleinere groenbronzen met allerlei strepen en kettinkjes over zijn rug en eindelijk nog een heel donker violette . Van de beide laatste waren er 't meest, die komen dan ook trouwens 't meest algemeen voor.

Ik mag hier wel even tusschen twee haakjes zeggen, dat de keverkundigen bij de woorden "goud" en "brons" aan andere kleuren denken dan aan gouden tientjes of bronzen centen. In de gauwigheid kan ik dat niet zoo precies beschrijven, 't best is maar, dat je probeert die kevers zelf te pakken te krijgen, dan snap je meteen de bedoeling.

De buit, die wij in Nizza behaalden, werd behoorlijk verdeeld en ik stopte mijn portie in de brandspiritus. Nog al met een gerust geweten ook, want ik meende, en ik geloof wel, dat ik gelijk had--dat in hun winterverdooving die dieren niet zoo'n ergen doodstrijd zouden hebben.

Voor iemand, die juist in 't drukst van 't aanleggen van verzamelingen was, had zoo'n vondst natuurlijk heel wat te beteekenen. Alles ging in een groote stopflesch, die bij ons thuis om de kleur van de spiritus en om 't donkere rommeltje op den bodem schertsend de trekpot werd genoemd. 's Avonds, of als 't slecht weer was, vischte ik uit die trekpot al mijn dieren weer op en dan werden ze netjes opgezet met de pooten mooi in de loophouding en de sprieten recht vooruit. Een aardig geduldwerkje, vol verrassingen. Soms had je met negen spelden alles kant en klaar, een andermaal waren de pooten zoo weerbarstig, dat er zes spelden noodig waren, om er ??n behoorlijk op zijn plaats te krijgen.

Wat heb ik een pleizier gehad van dat verzamelen. Ik had van alles: planten, insecten, schelpen, steenen, versteeningen, krabbenpooten, verdroogde zeesterren, alles wat maar buiten te verzamelen was. Van heel veel dingen wist ik de juiste namen niet, maar heel veel kwam ik te weten uit een Duitsch boek, dat ik in 't begin maar half begreep en voor een paar kwartjes gekocht had op een oude-boeken-stalletje. Later kreeg ik hulp van alle kanten, maar die eerste tijd was toch de leukste, allemaal vinden en ontdekken.

Natuurlijk tastte ik vaak mis. Door het onoplettend lezen van eene beschrijving kwam ik er toe, om een paar jaar lang het roodstaartje te betitelen met den naam van goudvink, maar dat kwam later wel terecht. De tegenwoordige jongelui hebben het heel wat makkelijker dan wij in onze jeugd, maar daarvoor wordt er ook al weer heel wat meer van hen gevergd.

Maar we zouden Nizza heelemaal vergeten, ons toevluchtsoord in Maart. Het eerste bloempje, dat er bloeide, was 't klein hoefblad en als dat in de warme zon zijn stralen uitspreidde, dan kwamen er uit den grond ook al dikke paarse proppen te voorschijn, die aan hun top openbarstten en daaruit verrees dan de bloeistengel van het groot hoefblad .

De aanwezigheid van die twee planten maakte, dat er haast geen gras op dien dam groeide, want in den zomer werd er de grond geheel overschaduwd door de groote bladeren van die planten, want je kunt de bladeren van klein hoefblad ook gerust groot noemen. Die van het groote zijn toch nog altijd weer viermaal zoo groot en zijn ook gemakkelijk te kennen aan den mooien stijven rand, die 't begin van de bladschijf steunt en niets anders is dan een dikke zijnerf.

Wij vonden het klein hoefblad aardiger dan het groot; het leefde zoo echt met de zon mee. Bij donker weer bleven de kopjes dicht, maar als de zon te voorschijn kwam, dan zag je binnen enkele minuten de gele straalbloempjes omslaan naar buiten en dan gingen ook de kleine bekervormige bloempjes open, die het hartje vormen.

Dan kwamen vliegen, hommels en vlinders opdagen en dan was 't aardig, om te zien, hoe die hun zuigsnuiten in de bloempjes staken: de vlieg een dik rond slurfje, de hommel iets dat wel leek op een blinkend mes en de vlinder een dun zwart draadje, dat hij allerkoddigst kon knikken en krommen.

Het groot hoefblad kreeg veel minder bezoek dan 't klein en later in 't jaar had het ook lang niet zulke mooie vruchtjes. Dan prijkt het kleine hoefblad met een mooi pluishoofdje, veel zachter en zijiger dan dat van de paardebloem. Wie 't wil nasnuffelen kan zien, dat die pluisvruchtjes alleen afkomstig zijn van de stralende lintbloempjes, de mooie bekerbloempjes middenin dienen alleen, om stuifmeel voort te brengen.

Soms kwamen er ook hoefbladbloempjes te voorschijn binnen het hek, op de wei zelf, maar dan kwam al heel gauw de boer opdagen, om ze uit te spitten. Hij hield meer van gras in de wei en was ook al lang van plan, die hoefbladplanten van den hekdam uit te roeien, want van daar woei natuurlijk 't zaad in de wei en ook maken ze lange uitloopers onder den grond, die met plezier onder een hek doorkruipen en wijd en zijd de buurt onveilig maken. Gelukkig kon hij er nooit den tijd voor vinden en zoo bleven wij in 't bezit van onze mooie bloemen.

In de wei zelf was in 't heel vroege voorjaar niet zoo heel veel te vinden. Schuins links achter het hek had je eerst een geheel kale plek, waar 't paard altijd stond te mijmeren in zijn vrijen tijd. Daarachter lag het ruime veld met grijs oud gras met jonge sprietjes en met allerlei klein goed, dat later bloeien zou en dat alles min of meer pimpelpaars zag van de zon, het voorjaar en de lage temperatuur.

Het meest frisch zag nog de ruige veldkers er uit, een verwant van de zoozeer beroemde en geliefde pinksterbloem . Deze ruige veldkers is meestal heelemaal niet ruig, maar gladjes en groen en hij bloeit ook al heel vroeg, tegelijk met 't hoefblad, met heel bescheiden witte kruisbloempjes.

Zulke kruisbloemen of cruciferen behooren in hun bloem zes meeldraden te hebben, vier lange en twee korte, maar die ruige veldkers schijnt geen tijd en gelegenheid te hebben, om ze alle zes te fabriceeren en vergenoegt zich dus in den regel met vier.

Hij slaagt er meestal in, mooi weer of geen mooi weer, om zijn lange hauwvruchten te rijpen. Dat gebeurt dan in Mei en Juni en dan hebt ge zoovetail, from which fact he derives his common name. His white throat and chin are a further diagnostic mark. The bright yellow of the edge of the wings, under coverts and axillaries is seldom seen, on account of the extreme wariness of the bird.

In most of the dry and bushy places I found him at my elbow--or, rather, some distance away, but in evidence by his mellifluous song. Let me enumerate the localities in which I found my little favorite: Forty miles out on the plain among some bushes of a shallow dip; among the foothills about Colorado Springs and Manitou; on many of the open bushy slopes along the cog-road leading to Pike's Peak, but never in the dark ravines or thick timber; among the bushes just below timber-line on the southern acclivity of the peak; everywhere around the village of Buena Vista; about four miles below Leadville; and, lastly, beyond the range at Red Cliff and Glenwood.

This list was greatly enlarged in my second trip to Colorado in 1901.

The song, besides its melodious quality, is full of expression. In this respect it excels the liquid chansons of the mountain hermit thrush, which is justly celebrated as a minstrel, but which does not rehearse a well-defined theme. The towhee's song is sprightly and cheerful, wild and free, has the swing of all outdoors, and is not pitched to a minor key. It gives you the impression that a bird which sings so blithesome a strain must surely be happy in his domestic relations.

Among the Rockies the black-headed grosbeak is much in evidence, and so is his cheerful, good-tempered song, which is an exact counterpart of the song of the rose-breasted grosbeak, his eastern kinsman. Neither the rose-breast nor the cardinal is to be found in Colorado, but they are replaced by the black-headed and blue grosbeaks, the former dwelling among the lower mountains, the latter occurring along the streams of the plains. Master black-head and his mate are partial to the scrub oaks for nesting sites. I found one nest with four callow bantlings in it, but, much to my grief and anger, at my next call it had been robbed of its precious treasures. A few days later, not far from the same place, a female was building a nest, and I am disposed to believe that she was the mother whose children had been kidnapped.

Instead of the scarlet and summer tanagers, the Rocky Mountain region is honored with that beautiful feathered gentleman, the Louisiana tanager, most of whose plumage is rich, glossy yellow, relieved by black on the wings, back, and tail; while his most conspicuous decoration is the scarlet or crimson tinting of his head and throat, shading off into the yellow of the breast. These colors form a picturesque combination, especially if set against a background of green. The crimson staining gives him the appearance of having washed his face in some bright-red pigment, and like an awkward child, blotched his bosom with it in the absence of a napkin.

So far as I could analyze it, there is no appreciable difference between his lyrical performances and those of the scarlet tanager, both being a kind of lazy, drawling song, that is slightly better than no bird music at all. One nest was found without difficulty. It was placed on one of the lower branches of a pine tree by the roadside at the entrance to Engleman's Ca?on. As a rule, the males are not excessively shy, as so many of the Rocky Mountain birds are. The tanagers were seen far up in the mountains, as well as among the foothills, and also at Red Cliff and Glenwood on the western side of the Divide.

A unique character in feathers, one that is peculiar to the West, is the magpie, who would attract notice wherever he should deign to live, being a sort of grand sachem of the outdoor aviary. In some respects the magpies are striking birds. In flight they present a peculiar appearance; in fact, they closely resemble boys' kites with their long, slender tails trailing in the breeze. I could not avoid the impression that their tails were superfluous appendages, but no doubt they serve the birds a useful purpose as rudders and balancing-poles. The magpie presents a handsome picture as he swings through the air, the iridescent black gleaming in the sun, beautifully set off with snowy-white trimmings on both the upper and lower surfaces of the wings. On the perch or on the wing he is an ornament to any landscape. As to his voice--well, he is a genuine squawker. There is not, so far as I have observed, a musical cord in his larynx, and I am sure he does not profess to be a musical genius, so that my criticism will do him no injury. All the use he has for his voice seems to be to call his fellows to a new-found banquet, or give warning of the approach of an interloper upon his chosen preserves. His cry, if you climb up to his nest, is quite pitiful, proving that he has real love for his offspring. Perhaps the magpies have won their chief distinction as architects. Their nests are really remarkable structures, sometimes as large as fair-sized tubs, the framework composed of good-sized sticks, skilfully plaited together, and the cup lined with grass and other soft material, making a cosey nursery for the infantile magpies. Then the nest proper is roofed over, and has an entrance to the apartment on either side. When you examine the structure closely, you find that it fairly bristles with dry twigs and sticks, and it is surprising how large some of the branches are that are braided into the domicile. All but one of the many nests I found were deserted, for my visit was made in June, and the birds, as a rule, breed earlier than that month. Some were placed in bushes, some in willow and cottonwood trees, and others in pines; and the birds themselves were almost ubiquitous, being found on the plains, among the foothills, and up in the mountains as far as the timber-line, not only close to human neighborhoods, but also in the most inaccessible solitudes.

In this volume the author has made use of the terminology usually employed in describing bird music. Hence such words as "song," "chant," "vocal cords," etc., are of frequent occurrence. In reality the writer's personal view is that the birds are whistlers, pipers, fluters, and not vocalists, none of the sounds they produce being real voice tones. The reader who may desire to go into this matter somewhat technically is referred to Maurice Thompson's chapter entitled "The Anatomy of Bird-Song" in his "Sylvan Secrets," and the author's article, "Are Birds Singers or Whistlers?" in "Our Animal Friends" for June, 1901.

In one of my excursions along a stream below Colorado Springs, one nest was found that was still occupied by the brooding bird. It was a bulky affair, perhaps half as large as a bushel basket, placed in the crotch of a tree about thirty feet from the ground. Within this commodious structure was a globular apartment which constituted the nest proper. Thus it was roofed over, and had an entrance at each side, so that the bird could go into his house at one doorway and out at the other, the room being too small to permit of his turning around in it. Thinking the nest might be occupied, in a tentative way I tossed a small club up among the branches, when to my surprise a magpie sprang out of the nest, and, making no outcry, swung around among the trees, appearing quite nervous and shy. When she saw me climbing the tree, she set up such a heart-broken series of cries that I permitted sentiment to get the better of me, and clambered down as fast as I could, rather than prolong her distress. Since then I have greatly regretted my failure to climb up to the nest and examine its contents, which might have been done without the least injury to the owner's valuable treasures. A nestful of magpie's eggs or bairns would have been a gratifying sight to my bird-hungry eyes.

One bird which is familiar in the East as well as the West deserves attention on account of its choice of haunts. I refer to the turtle dove, which is much hardier than its mild and innocent looks would seem to indicate. It may be remarked, in passing, that very few birds are found in the deep ca?ons and gorges leading up to the higher localities; but the doves seem to constitute the one exception to the rule; for I saw them in some of the gloomiest defiles through which the train scurried in crossing the mountains. For instance, in the ca?on of the Arkansas River many of them were seen from the car window, a pair just beyond the Royal Gorge darting across the turbulent stream to the other side. A number were also noticed in the darkest portions of the ca?on of the Grand River, where one would think not a living creature could coax subsistence from the bare rocks and beetling cliffs. Turtle doves are so plentiful in the West that their distribution over every available feeding ground seems to be a matter of social and economic necessity.

BALD PEAKS AND GREEN VALES

One of my chief objects in visiting the Rockies was to ascend Pike's Peak from Manitou, and make observations on the birds from the base to the summit. A walk one afternoon up to the Halfway House and back--the Halfway House is only about one-third of the way to the top--convinced me that to climb the entire distance on foot would be a useless expenditure of time and effort. An idea struck me: Why not ride up on the cog-wheel train, and then walk down, going around by some of the valleys and taking all the time needed for observations on the avi-faunal tenantry? That was the plan pursued, and an excellent one it proved.

When the puffing cog-wheel train landed me on the summit, I was fresh and vigorous, and therefore in excellent condition physically and mentally to enjoy the scenery and also to ride my hobby at will over the realm of cloudland. The summit is a bald area of several acres, strewn with immense fragments of granite, with not a spear of grass visible. One of the signal-station men asked a friend who had just come up from the plain, "Is there anything green down below? I'd give almost anything to see a green patch of some kind." There was a yearning strain in his tones that really struck me as pathetic. Here were visitors revelling in the magnificence of the panorama, their pulses tingling and their feelings in many cases too exalted for expression; but those whose business or duty it was to remain on the summit day after day soon found life growing monotonous, and longed to set their eyes on some patch of verdure. To the visitors, however, who were in hale physical condition, the panorama of snow-clad ranges and isolated peaks was almost overwhelming. In the gorges and sheltered depressions of the old mountain's sides large fields of snow still gleamed in the sun and imparted to the air a frosty crispness.

When the crowd of tourists, after posing for their photographs, had departed on the descending car, I walked out over the summit to see what birds, if any, had selected an altitude of fourteen thousand one hundred and forty-seven feet above sea-level for their summer home. Below me, to the east, stretched the gray plains running off to the skyline, while the foothills and lower mountains, which had previously appeared so high and rugged and difficult of access, now seemed like ant-hills crouching at the foot of the giant on whose crown I stood. Off to the southwest, the west, and the northwest, the snowy ranges towered, iridescent in the sunlight. In contemplating this vast, overawing scene, I almost forgot my natural history, and wanted to feast my eyes for hours on its ever-changing beauty; but presently I was brought back to a consciousness of my special vocation by a sharp chirp. Was it a bird, or only one of those playful little chipmunks that abound in the Rockies? Directly there sounded out on the serene air another ringing chirp, this time overhead, and, to my delight and surprise, a little bird swung over the summit, then out over the edge of the cliff, and plunged down into the fearsome abyss of the "Bottomless Pit." Other birds of the same species soon followed his example, making it evident that this was not a birdless region. Unable to identify the winged aeronauts, I clambered about over the rocks of the summit for a while, then slowly made my way down the southern declivity of the mountain for a short distance. Again my ear was greeted with that loud, ringing chirp, and now the bird uttering it obligingly alighted on a stone not too far away to be seen distinctly through my binocular. Who was the little waif that had chosen this sky-invading summit for its summer habitat? At first I mistook it for a horned lark, and felt so sure my decision was correct that I did not look at the bird as searchingly as I should have done, thereby learning a valuable lesson in thoroughness. The error was corrected by my friend, Mr. Charles E. Aiken, of Colorado Springs, who has been of not a little service in determining and classifying the avian fauna of Colorado. My new-found friend was the American pipit, which some years ago was known as the tit-lark.

The pipits frequently flitted from rock to rock, teetering their slender bodies like sandpipers, and chirping their disapproval of my presence. They furnished some evidence of having begun the work of nest construction, although no nests were found, as it was doubtless still too early in the season. In some respects the pipits are extremely interesting, for, while many of them breed in remote northern latitudes, others select the loftiest summits of the Rockies for summer homes, where they rear their broods and scour the alpine heights in search of food. The following interesting facts relative to them in this alpine country are gleaned from Professor Cooke's pamphlet on "The Birds of Colorado":

While watching the pipits, I had another surprise. On a small, grassy area amid the rocks, about a hundred feet below the summit, a white-crowned sparrow was hopping about on the ground, now leaping upon a large stone, now creeping into an open space under the rocks, all the while picking up some kind of seed or nut or insect. It was very confiding, coming close to me, but vouchsafing neither song nor chirp. Farther on I shall have more to say about these tuneful birds, but at this point it is interesting to observe that they breed abundantly among the mountains at a height of from eight thousand to eleven thousand feet, while the highest nest known to explorers was twelve thousand five hundred feet above the sea. One of Colorado's bird men has noted the curious fact that they change their location between the first and second broods--that is, in a certain park at an elevation of eight thousand feet they breed abundantly in June, and then most of them leave that region and become numerous among the stunted bushes above timber-line, where they raise a second brood. It only remains to be proved that the birds in both localities are the same individuals, which is probable.

On a shoulder of the mountain below me, a flock of ravens alighted on the ground, walked about awhile, uttered their hoarse croaks, and then took their departure, apparently in sullen mood. I could not tell whether they croaked "Nevermore!" or not.

Down the mountain side I clambered, occasionally picking a beautiful blossom from the many brilliant-hued clusters and inhaling its fragrance. Indeed, sometimes the breeze was laden with the aroma of these flowers, and in places the slope looked like a cultivated garden. The only birds seen that afternoon above timber-line were those already mentioned. What do the birds find to eat in these treeless and shrubless altitudes? There are many flies, some grasshoppers, bumble-bees, beetles, and other insects, even in these arctic regions, dwelling among the rocks and in the short grass below them watered by the melting snows.

At about half-past four in the afternoon I reached the timber-line, indicated by a few small, scattering pines and many thick clumps of bushes. Suddenly a loud, melodious song brought me to a standstill. It came from the bushes at the side of the trail. Although I turned aside and sought diligently, I could not find the shy lyrist. Another song of the same kind soon reached me from a distance. Farther down the path a white-crowned sparrow appeared, courting his mate. With crown-feathers and head and tail erect, he would glide to the top of a stone, then down into the grass where his lady-love sat; up and down, up and down he scuttled again and again. My approach put an end to the picturesque little comedy. The lady scurried away into hiding, while the little prince with the snow-white diadem mounted to the top of a bush and whistled the very strain that had surprised me so a little while before, farther up the slope. Yes, I had stumbled into the summer home of the white-crowned sparrow, which on the Atlantic coast and the central portions of the American continent breeds far in the North.

It was not long before I was regaled with a white-crown vesper concert. From every part of the lonely valley the voices sounded. And what did they say? "Oh, de-e-e-ar, de-e-ar, Whittier, Whittier," sometimes adding, in low, caressing tones, "Dear Whittier"--one of the most melodious tributes to the Quaker poet I have ever heard. Here I also saw my first mountain bluebird, whose back and breast are wholly blue, there being no rufous at all in his plumage. He was feeding a youngster somewhere among the snags. A red-shafted flicker flew across the vale and called, "Zwick-ah! zwick-ah!" and then pealed out his loud call just like the eastern yellow-shafted high-holder. Why the Rocky Mountain region changes the lining of the flicker's wings from gold to crimson--who can tell? A robin--the western variety--sang his "Cheerily," a short distance up the hollow, right at the boundary of the timber-line.

About half-past five I found myself a few hundred feet below timber-line in the lone valley, which was already beginning to look shadowy and a little uncanny, the tall ridges that leaped up at the right obscuring the light of the declining sun. My purpose had been to find accommodations at a mountaineer's cabin far down the valley, in the neighborhood of the Seven Lakes; but I had tarried too long on the mountain, absorbed in watching the birds, and the danger now was that, if I ventured farther down the hollow, I should lose my way and be compelled to spend the night alone in this deserted place. I am neither very brave nor very cowardly; but, in any case, such a prospect was not pleasing to contemplate. Besides, I was by no means sure of being able to secure lodgings at the mountaineer's shanty, even if I should be able to find it in the dark. There seemed to be only one thing to do--to climb back to the signal station on the summit.

I turned about and began the ascent. How much steeper the acclivities were than they had seemed to be when I came down! My limbs ached before I had gone many rods, and my breath came short. Upward I toiled, and by the time my trail reached the cog-road I was ready to drop from exhaustion. Yet I had not gone more than a third of the way to the top. I had had no supper, but was too weary even to crave food, my only desire being to find some place wherein to rest. Night had now come, but fortunately the moon shone brightly from a sky that was almost clear, and I had no difficulty in following the road.

My breath came shorter and shorter, until I was compelled to open my mouth widely and gasp the cold, rarefied air, which, it seemed, would not fill my chest with the needed oxygen. Sharp pains shot through my lungs, especially in the extremities far down in the chest; my head and eye-balls ached, and it seemed sometimes as if they would burst; my limbs trembled with weakness, and I tottered and reeled like a drunken man from side to side of the road, having to watch carefully lest I might topple over the edge and meet with a serious accident. Still that relentless track, with its quartette of steel rails, stretched steep before me in the distance.

"Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky!"

So far as the aesthetic value of it went, I was monarch of all I surveyed, even though mile on mile of grandeur and glory was spread out before me. The quatrain of Lowell recurred to my mind:

"'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by poorest comer."

Bidding a regretful good-by to the summit, for it held me as by a magician's spell, I hastened down the steep incline of the cog-wheel road, past Windy Point, and turning to the right, descended across the green slope below the boulder region to the open, sunlit valley which I had visited on the previous afternoon. It was an idyllic place, a veritable paradise for birds. Such a chorus as greeted me from the throats of I know not how many white-crowned sparrows,--several dozen, perhaps,--it would have done the heart of any lover of avian minstrelsy good to listen to. The whole valley seemed to be transfigured by their roundelays, which have about them such an air of poetry and old-world romance. During the morning I was so fortunate as to find a nest, the first of this species that I had ever discovered. Providence had never before cast my lot with these birds in their breeding haunts. The nest was a pretty structure placed on the ground, beneath a bush amid the green grass, its holdings consisting of four dainty, pale-blue eggs, speckled with brown. The female leaped from her seat as I passed near, and in that act divulged her little family secret. Although she chirped uneasily as I bent over her treasures, she had all her solicitude for nothing; the last thing I would think of doing would be to mar her maternal prospects. As has been said, in this valley these handsome sparrows were quite plentiful; but when, toward evening, I clambered over a ridge, and descended into the valley of Moraine Lake, several hundred feet lower than the Seven Lakes valley, what was my surprise to find not a white-crown there! The next day I trudged up to the Seven Lakes, and found the white-crowns quite abundant in the copses, as they had been farther up the hollow on the previous day; and, besides, in a boggy place about two miles below Moraine Lake there were several pairs, and I was fortunate enough to find a nest. Strange--was it not?--that these birds should avoid the copsy swamps near Moraine Lake, and yet select for breeding homes the valleys both above and below it. Perhaps the valley of Moraine Lake is a little too secluded and shut in by the towering mountains on three sides, the other places being more open and sunshiny.

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