The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1895-12-14

species builds in alfalfa fields in the
villages and sings in the streets of
the towns. He is the show singer of
the mountain regions, and we'll worth
a journey to hear 1t is charming to
see his devoted attendance upon his
mate, as she collects the materials
and fashions her nest, accompanying
her on every trip, perching on fence
to watch for intruders upon their pri
vate affairs, and cheering her with
scraps of song. But more charming
is it to stand under the tree where he
awaits her temperance from under
the alfalfa, and listen to his love song,
the choicest effort of his musical gen.
ius, thrilling and rapturous melody
sacred to courtship days, and too low
and tender to be heard by any but
the most devoted, and the most quiet
of bird lovers.
One of the most familiar birds
about the houses that border the
brook already spoken of, after it
leaves the narrow mountain walls,-a
bird who takes the place the robin
occupies in the Easter States,-is the
chewink or towhee bunting, with vel
vety black head and back, white
breast and bright chestnut sides. His
peculiar song, at its best like a peal
of silver bells, may be heard from
morning till night, and he may often
be seen foraging about under the
bushes, scratching in the leaves and
dirt, or stealing up to the back door
where the family dogs have had their
breakfast.
The nest of this bird is as hard to
find as bobolink's in meadow, be-
ing a deep cup sunk into the earth,
closely hidden under some low bush.
The only one | ever had the good
fortune to see in the Rockies was in
the Wasatch Range, in great patch
of sage brush, where each bush was
the exact copy of every other bush,
and nests were almost impossible to
find. The chewink himself announc-
ed the presence of a nest by alighting
on low tree with a worm in his
mouth, and uttering cry of distress
or dismay on seeing me. He might
as we'll have put out sign at once,
and [ was instantly on the alert to
see his mate. In moment / noticed
her skulking away from behind me,
evidently trying to avoid observation.
Following up this clue I soon found
the little home under the lowest
branch of sage bush, and so near it
that wondered the mother could get
in.
The nest was full of little folks,
packed like sardines in box and
perfectly quiet. I went every day to
look at them, saw them as they grew
and took on their feathers, but they
were always the same silent, sleepy
little creatures, and on the eighth
day OF my watching, and perhaps the
ninth or tenth of their lives, they
were gone, and it was useless to seek
them in the wilderness of sage brush
that covered half the mountain side.
Beside these birds, all of whom
have very near relations in the East,
ern States, the Rockies have their
own exclusive bird, one never found
far from the cool and sparkling
streams that rush and tumble down
the canons-the American dipper or
water ouzel. This bird is further dis
tinguished by having a lover and
poet of his own-John Muir-who
has spent large part of his life in
the mountains, and often been for
weeks together where almost his only
living companion was the ouzel, of
whom he says: HE is the mountain
streams own darling, the humming
bird of blooming waters, loving rocky
ripple-slopes and sheets of foam as a
bee loves flowers, as lark loves sun
shine and meadows"
The water ouzel is bird of great
interest from the peculiarly of his
habits and his cheerful, winning
ways. Matched in a snug covered
nest of moss, on rocky ledge where
the spray from a waterfall keeps it
ever fresh and green, he is rarely, if
ever, in his life out of hearing of
the music of running and falling
water. 1t is no wonder, as Mr.. Muir
says, that he sings water songs, for
they are ever in his ears.
No bird on earth, not even of the
distinctively water birds, is more in
separable from water than this one,
who is at the same time strictly terres-
trial in structure. He nests beside
it, often behind or under the sprinkle
of fall; he gets all his food from