Six years ago, on my first visit to California, I found a dainty cup of a nest out in the oaks, but the name of its owner was a puzzle. On returning East I consulted those who are wisest in matters of such fine china, but they were unable to clear up the matter. For five years that mystery haunted me. At the end of that time, when back in California, up in those same oaks, I found another cup of the same pattern; but the cup got broken and that was the end of it.

The fact of the matter is, you can identify perhaps ninety per cent. of the birds you see, with an opera-glass and—patience; but when it comes to the other ten per cent., including small vireos and flycatchers, and some others that might be mentioned, you are involved in perplexities that torment your mind and make you meditate murder; for it is impossible to

Name all the birds without a gun.

On bringing my riddle to the wise men, they shook their heads and asked why I did not shoot my bird and find out who he was. On saying the word his skin would be sent to me; but after knowing the little family in their home it would have been like raising my hand against familiar friends. Could I take their lives to gratify my curiosity about a name? I pondered long and weighed the matter well, trying to harden my heart; but the image of the winning trustful birds always rose before me and made it impossible. I will put the case before you, and you can judge if you would not have withheld your hand.

One day, hearing the sound of battle up in the treetops, I hurried over to the scene of action, when out dashed a pair of courageous little dull-colored birds in hot pursuit of a blue jay, whom they dove at till they drove him from the field. My sympathies were enlisted at once. Fearless little tots to brave a bird four times as big as themselves in defense of their home! How hard to have to build and rear a brood in the face of such a powerful foe! I wanted to take up the cudgels for them and stand guard to see that no harm came.

Planting my camp-stool under their oak, I watched eagerly to have my new friends show me their home. As I waited, a pair of turtle doves walked about on the sand under the farther branches of the tree; a pair of woodpeckers sat on a dead limb lying in wait for their prey; and a couple of titmice came hunting through the oak—all the world seemed full of happy home-makers.

But soon I saw a sight that made me forget everything else. There were my brave little birds up in the oak working upon a beautiful moss cup that hung from a forked twig. They were building together, flying rapidly back and forth bringing bits of moss from the brush to put in their nest.

They worked independently, each hunting moss and placing it to its own satisfaction. What one did the other would be well pleased with, I felt sure. But while each worked according to its own ideas, they always appeared to be working together; they could not bear to be out of sight of each other long at a time. When the small father bird found himself at the nest alone, after placing his material he would stand and call to let his pretty mate know that he was waiting for her; or else sit down by the nest and warble over such a contented, happy little lay it warmed my heart just to listen to him.

When his mate appeared the merry birds would chase off for a race through the treetops. Song and play were mingled with their work, but, for all that, the happy builders' house grew under their hands, and they kept faithfully at their task of preparing the home for their little brood. Once the small, dainty mother bird,—surely it must have been she,—after putting in her bit of moss, settled down in the nest and sat there the picture of quiet happiness.

This was all I saw of the nest builders that year. A great storm swept through the valley, and it must have washed away the frail mossy cup, for it was gone and the tree was deserted. Nevertheless, the birds had been so attractive, and their nest so interesting, that through the five years that passed before my return to California I kept their memory green, and could never think of them without tenderness—though I could call them by no name. If they had only worn red feathers in their caps, it would have been some clue to their coats-of-arms; but, out of hand, there seemed to be nothing to mark the plain, little, greenish gray birds from half a dozen of their cousins.

When I finally returned to the California ranch, one of my first thoughts was for the moss nest makers up in the oaks. Now I had a chance to solve the mystery without harming one of their pretty feathers, for by long and patient watching I might get near enough to puzzle out the 'spurious primary' and the subtle distinctions of tint that make such a difference in calling birds by their right names.

For six weeks I watched and listened in vain, but one day when riding up the canyon rejoicing at the new life that filled the trees, I stopped under an oak only a few rods from the one where the nest had been five years before, and looking up saw a small dull-colored bird with a bit of moss in its bill walking down into a mossy cup right before my eyes! For a few moments I was the happiest observer in the land. I had found my little friend again, after all these years! It looked over the edge of the twig at me several times, but went on gathering material as unconcernedly as if it, too, remembered me. The mossy cup seemed prettier than any rare bit of SÈvres china, for I looked upon it with eyes that had been waiting for the sight for five years.

As the bird worked, a cottontail rabbit rustled the leaves, and Billy started forward, frightening the timid animal so that it scampered off over the ground, showing the white underside of its tail. But though Billy and the rabbit were both terrified, the brave worker only flew down to a twig to look at them, and turned back calmly to its task.

The nest was so protectively colored that I could not see it readily, and sometimes started to find that I had been looking right at it without knowing it. The prospect of identifying my birds was not encouraging. You might as well expect to see from the first floor what was going on up in a cupola as to expect to see from the ground what birds are doing up in the thick oak tops. You have reason to be thankful for even a glimpse of a bird in the heavy foliage, and as for 'spurious primaries,'—"Woe worth the chase!"

Now and then I got a hint of family matters. My two little friends were working together, and occasionally I saw a bit of moss put in; but it was evident that the main part of the work was over. One day I waited half an hour, and when the bird came it acted as if it had really done all that was necessary, and only returned for the sake of being about its pretty home.

The birds said a good deal up in the oak, sometimes in sweet lisping tones, as though talking to themselves about the nest. They often flew away from it not far over my head. The call note was a loud whistle—whee-it'—and the bird gave it so rapidly that I once took out my watch to time him, after which he called seventy times in sixty seconds. Often after whistling loudly he would give a soft low call. His clear ringing voice was one of the most cheering in the valley.

When the building seemed done and I was looking forward to the brooding, as the birds would then, perforce, be more about the nest, one sad morning I rode up through the oaks and found the beautiful moss cup torn and dangling from its branch. It was the keenest disappointment of the nesting season, and there had been many. The pretty acquaintance to whose renewal I had looked forward so many years was now ended.

Again I had to leave California without being able to name my winning little friends. If I had been too much interested in them before to set a price on their heads; now, rather than raise my voice against them, they should remain forever unnamed.[4]

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