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Updated: May 16, 2025
One cannot say, "The magpie does thus and so," because each individual magpie has his own way of doing, and circumstances alter cases, with birds as well as with people. On this occasion we placed ourselves boldly, though very quietly, in the paths that run through the oak-brush. We had abandoned all attempt at concealment; we could hope only for tolerance.
Happily, we too had learned to "slip through," and we passed the gate with its rope puzzle, and the six or eight horses who pointed inquiring ears toward their unwonted visitors, and hastened to get under cover before the birds, if any lived there, should come home. The oak-brush, which we then approached, is a curious and interesting form of vegetation.
Shall we go in? was always the question before an inclosure. We looked over the wall. It was plainly the abode of horses, meek work-a-day beings, who certainly would not resent our intrusion. Oak-brush was there in plenty, and that is the chosen home of the magpie. We hesitated; we started for the gate.
Selecting a favorable-looking clump of oak-brush, we attempted to get in without using the open horse paths, where we should be in plain sight. Melancholy was the result; hats pulled off, hair disheveled, garments torn, feet tripped, and wounds and scratches innumerable.
all its inequalities, its divisions, its irregularities emphasized, its greens turned greener, its reds made more glowing, an unequaled gem for a parting gift. To come back to Utah. One morning, on our way up to the heights, as we were passing a clump of oak-brush, a bird cry rang out.
The ruddy-faced Bishop scanned the horizon with a dreamy, speculative eye, turning at length to his companions. "We better get to this burying," he said. "Wait a minute," said Follett. They saw him go to Prudence, raise her from the ground, put a saddle-blanket over his arm, and lead her slowly up the road around a turn that took them beyond a clump of the oak-brush.
Magpie voices were heard from morning till night; strange, loud calls of "mag! mag!" were ever in our ears. "Oh, yes," we had said, "we must surely go out some morning and find a nest." First we inquired. Everybody knew where they built, in oak-brush or in apple-trees, but not a boy in that village knew where there was a nest. Oh, no, not one!
A few minutes they remained, with flirting tails, conversing in garrulous tones, then together they rose on broad wings, and passed away away over the fields, almost out of sight, before they dropped into a patch of oak-brush. After them appeared others, and we sat there a long time, hoping to see at least one that had its home within our reach.
Imagine an extensive inclosure on the side of a mountain, with its barren-looking soil strewn with rocks of all sizes, from a pebble to a bowlder, cut across by an irrigating ditch or a mountain brook, dotted here and there by sage bushes, and patches of oak-brush, and wild roses, and one has a picture of a Salt Lake pasture. Closely examined, it has other peculiarities.
He got up and went forward when the wagon stopped, leaning casually on the wheel. "He's already dead, but you can help me bury him as soon as I get my wife out of the way around that oak-brush I see you've brought along a spade." The men in the wagon looked at each other, and then climbed slowly out.
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