Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 2 [February 1902]. Various

the most precious I will choose.

      I’ll sit in my tent of brilliant blue

      And look through its lacings of willow gold,

      That shows a flashing of cardinal hue.

      Yes, that’s my redbird – I see him. Don’t you?

      He’s here if my breath is cold.

      There’s darker spots close by redbird’s flash;

      They look like shadows compared to him.

      Now they dip in the brook where its waters plash

      O’er the willow’s roots with a rippling clash,

      And drink from my ice cups so thin.

      I think they are snowbirds. Hello, little mutes!

      Just answer me now till I’m sure it is you.

      You look with your rusty brownish suits,

      As you flirt and dance o’er the frozen roots,

      Like the tasseled cords of my shoe.

      Haw! haw! from the treetop laughs out crow.

      “Don’t you know I am out with the very best?

      I love the sun, and I flap to and fro,

      The one black-wing not afraid of the snow,

      Though you sometimes call me a pest.”

      And Mr. Field Finch with chestnut hood,

      As he swings and sways on his weed perch brown,

      Calls in tones that you will not use when you’re good,

      “Can’t you see a body? See! I’m here near the wood

      Where the berries and seeds rattle down.”

      I’ll now call Robin. Where are you, dear?

      I know I saw you this early morn,

      A crimson breast in the pine tree here.

      Come, Robin, come! I’m sure you are near;

      Yes, yonder you sit in that thorn.

      Oh my cloak is so gay and its gems never rest,

      But flutter and shine, ’neath the rays of the sun;

      So I’ll draw it close to my rugged breast,

      And never will say which one I love best —

      For I love them all – every one.

– Mary Noland.

      A QUEER PARTNERSHIP

      A fine afternoon of that lovely spring month, May, found me ready for an afternoon collecting among the birds. Leaving home, I made my way to the river bank, and slowly strolled along its banks, finding much to amuse and interest me among the birds and flowers, seeing many old friends and a few new ones. After going about half a mile, I came to a well wooded place on one of the banks where the tall pines found safe homes for the crows, and a few families were raised here every year. A little way back, partly up the hill, was a dead basswood stump or tree, which contained the home of a golden-winged woodpecker or flicker, which I had found a few days before by seeing the bird leaving the nesting hole. As the hole was between 30 and 40 feet from the ground, I put on my climbers and was soon in a position to investigate; so, seating myself on a large limb that branched out just below the nest, I inserted my hand, and got quite a start on catching hold of some soft, downy creature, which I thought must be a squirrel, but imagine my surprise to find that I had secured an adult screech owl from out of the woodpecker’s nest. The owl, which had lain quietly enough in my hands, put an end to my thoughts by suddenly coming to life, and very active life at that, and putting its claws into my hand, prepared to give itself a good startoff. But I had hold of its legs, and as I did not like the way it was holding on, I put it back into the hole, from which in the meantime I had taken an egg, which on examining proved to be the woodpecker’s and not an owl egg. Though the eggs are both white, the woodpecker’s is larger than it is broad and more of a glossy texture, while the owl’s is nearly round and also much larger.