On our way back and forth along the line of oaks and sycamores belonging to the little prisoners, the little lover, and the gnatcatchers, Mountain Billy and I got a good many hints, he of places to graze, and I of new nests to watch.

While waiting for the woodpeckers one day I saw a small brownish bird flying busily back and forth to some green weeds. She was joined by her mate, a handsome blue lazuli bunting, even more beautiful than our lovely indigo bunting, and he flew beside her full of life and joy. He lit on the side of a cockle stem, and on the instant caught sight of me. Alas! he seemed suddenly turned to stone. He held onto that stalk as if his little legs had been bars of iron and I a devouring monster. When he had collected his wits enough to fly off, instead of the careless gay flight with which he had come out through the open air, he timidly kept low within the cockle field, making a circuitous way through the high stalks.

He could be afraid of me if he liked, I thought,—for after a certain amount of suspicion an innocent person gets resentful; at any rate, I was going to see that nest. Creeping up cautiously when the mother bird was away, so as not to scare her, and carefully parting the mallows, I looked in. Yes, there it was, a beautiful little sage-green nest of old grass laid in a coil. I felt as pleased as if having a right to share the family happiness.

After that I watched the small worker gather material with new interest, knowing where she was going to put it. She worked fast, but did not take the first thing she found, by any means. With a flit of the wing she went in nervous haste from cockle to cockle, looking eagerly about her. Jumping down to the ground, she picked up a bit of grass, threw it down dissatisfied, and turned away like a person looking for something. At last she lit on the side of a thistle, and tweaking out a fibre flew with it to the nest.

When the house was done, one morning in passing I leaned down from the saddle, and through the weeds saw her brown wings as she sat on the nest. A month after the first encounter with the father lazuli, I found him looking at me around the corner of a cockle stalk, and in passing back again caught him singing full tilt, though his bill was full of insects! After we had turned our backs, I looked over my shoulder and had the satisfaction of seeing him take his beakful to the nest. You couldn't help admiring him, for though not a warrior who would snap his bill over the head of an enemy of his home, he had a gallant holiday air with his blue coat and merry song, and you felt sure his little brown mate would get cheer and courage enough from his presence to make family dangers appear less frightful. Even this casual acquaintance with the little pair gave me a new and tender interest in all of their name I might know in future.

While watching the lazulis from the sycamores, on looking up on a level with Billy's ears, I discovered a snug canopied nest held by a jointed branch of the twisted tree, as in the palm of your hand. It was as if the old sycamore were protecting the little brood, holding it secure from all dangers. Looking at the nest, I spied a brown tail resting against the limb, and then a small brown head was raised to look at me from between the leaves. It was the little bird whose sweet home-like song had so cheered my heart in this far-away land, the home song sparrow, dearer than all the birds of California. It was such a pleasure to find her that I sat in the saddle and talked to the pretty bird while she brooded her eggs under the green leaves.

The next time we went down to the sycamore the bird was away, and it seemed as if the tree had been deserted. It was empty and uninteresting. Again I came, and this time the father song sparrow sang blithely in the old tree, while his gentle mate went about looking for food for her brood. Her little birds had come! How happy and full of business she seemed! She ran nimbly over the ground, weaving in and out between the stalks of the oats and the yellow mustard, as if there were paths in her forest. When she had to run across the sand bed, out in open sight, she put up her tail, held her wings tight at her sides, and scudded across. Then with the sunlight through the leaves dappling her back, she ran around the foot of the sycamore. She had something in her bill, and with a happy chirp was off to her brood.

There was another family abroad on our beat. When riding past the little lover's, I heard voices of young birds beyond, and rode out to the oak in the middle of the field from which they came, to see who it was. It was a surprise to find a family of full-fledged blue jays—a surprise, because the jays had been terrorizing the small birds of the neighborhood till it seemed strange to think they had any family life themselves. I had come to feel that they were great hobgoblins going about seeking whom they could devour; but such harsh judgments are usually false, whether of birds or beasts, and I was convinced against my will on hearing the tender tone in which the old jays called to their young.

To be sure, they were imperative in their commands. As I rode, around the tree, one of them looked at me sharply and proceeded to take measures to protect his brood. When one of the children told me where he was, his parent promptly flew over and shouted in his ear, "Be quiet!" with such a ring of command that an unbroken hush followed. Moreover, when one child, probably a greedy one, teased for food, its parent ran down the branch to drive it off; and in some way best known to themselves the old birds hushed up the boisterous young ones and spirited them out of my sight. But all these things were in line with good family government and the best interests of the children, and were more than atoned for by the soft gentle notes the old birds used when they were leading around their cherished brood out of harm's way.