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When one stumbles on the nest of a Quail, Meadowlark, or Oven-bird, it is well not to approach it closely, because all over the country many night-prowling animals have the habit of following by scent the footsteps of any one who has lately gone along through the woods or across the fields. One afternoon by the rarest chance I found three Quails' nests containing eggs.
I likes to look at a little bit of sky or hear a meadowlark or smell a flower or two, but poaching ! Really, guvner, you hadnt ought to take away a man's character." I thought it a shame so sturdy and amusing a fellow should have to eke out his living so precariously. "I'll tell you what I'll do," I said.
Meadowlark flew to the swampy place where the rushes grew, just to find a Red-winged Blackbird that he knew, in order to learn whether he had seen or heard the friend everybody was watching for. Perched upon a swaying last year's cattail, Mr. Red-winged Blackbird shook his head in reply. And he said that no doubt it would be a week before the looked-for arrival. "The season's a bit backward," Mr.
The song of ecstasy with our meadowlark is delivered in a level flight and is sharp and hurried, both flight and song differing radically from its everyday performance. One thinks of the bobolink as singing almost habitually on the wing. He is the most rollicking and song-drunk of all our singing birds. His season is brief but hilarious.
It should be remembered that hole-nesting birds are the only kind that will ever use a bird box. One need not expect a Meadowlark to leave its nest in the grass for a box on a pole, nor imagine that an Oriole will give up the practice of weaving its swinging cradle on an elm limb to go into a box nailed to the side of the tree. Feeding Birds.
And she may think I ought not to belong to any societies at present." Just then little, yellowish-brown Mrs. Bobolink came skimming over the meadow and dropped down beside them. "Would you mind, my love, if I joined the Pleasant Valley Singing Society?" Bobby asked her. "Perhaps you'd like to become a member yourself," Mr. Meadowlark suggested nervously. But Mrs.
Meadowlark brought Bobby to the meeting, along the rail fence between the meadow and the pasture. And he told everybody that there wasn't really any need of such a test. "He's by far the finest singer in all these parts," Mr. Meadowlark declared. There were a few who might have disputed his statement, had not Bobby Bobolink been present. They were too polite, however, to do anything like that.
It's brown speckled with black and has a black patch on the breast and red on the head and when he flies you can see a white spot over the tail. Do you think he has come out of a cage?" "No, missy, that is not a Meadowlark, is not rare or wonderful, and has not been in a cage; that is an every-day sort of a Woodpecker, having many names.
The clear, piercing, shaft-like note of our meadowlark contrasts with that of the Pacific variety as our hard, brilliant blue skies contrast with the softer and tenderer skies of this sun-blessed land. To have a smooth grassy lawn about your house on the Pacific coast is to have spread out before you at nearly all hours of the day a pretty spectacle of wild-bird life.
"My husband can pass any singing test that you can give him!" she exclaimed. "The idea of mentioning him and Mr. Crow in the same breath!" "Pardon me!" Mr. Meadowlark said hastily. "I took several breaths just before I spoke about Mr. Crow." He hoped that he hadn't offended Bobby Bobolink's wife. She wasn't really angry. But she was proud of her husband's voice. And she wanted Mr.
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