There were half a dozen places in the valley, irrigated by the spring rains, where I was always sure of finding birds. Among them, on the west side, was the big sycamore, standing at the lower end of the valley; while above, in the northwest corner, was the mouth of Twin Oaks canyon where the migrants flocked in the brush around the large twin oak that overlooked the little old schoolhouse. On the east side was the Ughland canyon, at the mouth of which the little lover and his neighbors nested; while below it straggled the line of sycamores that followed the Ughland stream down through my ranch. But up at the head of the valley beyond the ranch-house was the most delightful place of all. There I was always sure of finding interesting nests to study.

Surrounded by a waste of chaparral, it was a little oasis of great blooming live-oaks, and in their shade I used often to spend the hot afternoon hours. In the spring the water that flowed down the hills at the head of the valley formed a fresh mountain stream that ran down the Oden canyon and so on through the centre of this grove, feeding the oaks and spreading out to enrich the valley below. In summer, like the rest of the canyon streams, only its dry sandy bed remained. Then, when the meadows were oppressively hot, my leafy garden was a shady bower to linger in. Its long drooping branches hung to the ground, dainty yellow warblers flitted about the golden tassels of the blossoming trees, and the air was full of the happy songs of mated birds.

The trail from the ranch-house to the oaks was a line through the low grass in which grew yellow fly flowers and orange poppies; and over them every spring, day after day, processions of migrating butterflies drifted slowly up the canyon. At the entrance of the garden was a sentinel oak whose dark green foliage contrasted well with the yellow flowers in the grass outside. It was the chosen hunting-ground of many birds. Its dead upper branches offered the bee-birds and woodpeckers an unobstructed view of passing insects, and gave the jays and flickers a chance to overlook the brush, and take their bearings. The lower limbs offered perches where doves might come to rest, finches to chatter, and chewinks to sing; while its hanging boughs and elm-like feathered sides attracted wandering warblers and songful wrens.

The happy days spent among these beautiful California oaks are now far in the past, but as I sit in my study in the East and dream back over those hours my mind is filled with memory pictures. Sauntering through this oaken gallery, each tree recalls some pleasant hour—the sight of a new bird, the sound of a new song, the prolonged delight of some cozy home that I watched till accepted as a friend, when the little family's fears and joys were my own.

That big double oak, spreading across the middle of the garden, was the haunted tree whose blue ghost drove away the pewees and gnatcatchers after they had begun to build; though the vireos and bush-tits braved it out, and the tiny hummer and gentle dove were not afraid to perch there. This was hummingbird lane—that small oak held the nest in which the two wee nestlings sat up like Jacks-in-the-box; these blue sage bushes growing in the sand were the ones the honey bees and hummers used to haunt, the hummers probing each lavender lip as they circled round the whorls; in front of this bush I saw a fairy dancer perform his airy minuet,—swing back and forth, and then sweep up in the air to dive whirring down with gorget puffed out and tail spread wide; and here, when watching a procession of ants, I discovered a tiny hummingbird building in a drooping branch that overhung the trail. That dead limb was the perch of a wood pewee, a silent grave bird with a sad call, who flew on when he was still only a lonely stranger. That oak top was made memorable by the sight of a flaming oriole, though he came on a cold foggy morning and answered my calls with a broken song and a half-hearted scold as he sat with his feathers ruffled up about him. Under the low spreading branches of that tree the chewinks used to scratch—I can hear the brown leaves rustle now—the branches were so low that, if the shy birds flew up to rest from their labors, they could quickly drop down and disappear in the brush.

On ahead, where the garden narrows to the trail between the walls of brush, when I was hidden behind a screen of branches, the timid white-crowned sparrows used to venture out, hopping along quietly or stopping to sing and pick up seeds on the path. Back a few steps was the tree where the bush-tits came to build their second nest after the roof of the first one fell in; the nest which hung on such a low limb that I watched it from the sand beneath, looking up through the branches at the blue sky, the canyon walls covered with sun-whitened bowlders, and the turkey buzzards circling over the mountains.

Just there, in that small open place between the trees,—how well I remember the afternoon,—I saw a new bird come out of the bushes; the green-tailed chewink he proved to be, on his way back to the Rocky Mountains. He was a beautiful stranger with a soft glossy coat touched off with yellowish green, while his high-bred gentle manners have made me remember him with affectionate interest all these years. Across the garden I heard my first song from that unique rhapsodist, the yellow-breasted chat. The same place marks another interesting experience. While I was sitting in the crotch of an oak a thrasher came out of the brush into an open space in front of me. Her feathers were disordered and apparently she had come from her nest. She walked with wings tight at her sides and her tail up at an angle well out of the way of the rustling leaves; altogether a neat alert figure that contrasted sharply with the lazy brown chippie which appeared just then in characteristic negligÉe, its wings hanging and tail dragging on the ground. The thrashers of Twin Oaks have bills that are curved like a sickle, and this bird used her tool most skillfully. Instead of scratching up the leaves and earth with her feet as chewinks and sparrows do, the thrasher used her bill almost exclusively. First she cleared a space by scraping the leaves away, moving her bill through them rapidly from side to side. Then she made two holes in the ground, probing deep with her long bill. After taking what she could get from the second hole, she went back to the first again, as if to see if anything had come to the surface there. Then she lay down on the sand to sun herself and acted as though going to take a sun bath, when suddenly she discovered me and fled.

When watching the bird at work I got a pretty picture in the round disk of my opera-glass. The glass was focused on the digging thrasher, but a goldfinch came into the picture and pulled at some stems for its nest and a cottontail ran rapidly across from rim to rim. I lifted the glass to follow him and saw him go trotting down the path between the bushes.

The thrasher's curved bill gives a most ludicrous look to the bird when singing. He looks as if he were trying to turn himself inside out. I once saw an adult thrasher tease its mate for food, and wondered how it would be possible for one curved bill to feed another curved bill; but a few days later I came on a family of young, and discovered for myself that they have straight bills; a most curious and interesting instance of adaptation.

At the head of the garden stands a tree that always reminds me of the horses I rode in California. I watched my first bush-tit's nest under it, with Canello grazing near; and five years later watched another bush-tit's nest there, sitting in the crotch of the oak with Mountain Billy looking over my shoulder. Although Billy was, in his prime, a bucking mustang, he became more of a petted companion than Canello had been; and when we were out alone together, we were a great deal of company for each other. As soon as I dismounted he would put his head down to have me slip the reins off over his ears, so that he could graze by himself. Sometimes, when he stood behind me he rested his bridle on my sun-hat, and once went so far as to take a bite out of the brim—in consideration of its being straw. If I were sitting on the ground and he was grazing near, he would at times walk up and gravely raise his face to look into mine. When he got tired, he would rub up against my arm and yawn, looking down at me with a friendly smile in his eyes.

Birding was rather dull for Billy—when there was neither grass nor poison ivy at hand, but he had one never-failing source of enjoyment—rolling. He tried it in the sand under the oak, one day, with the saddle on. Before I knew what he was about he was down on his knees, sitting still, with a comical, helpless look in his eyes, as if quite at a loss to know what to do next, having become conscious of the saddle. When I had gotten him on his feet and finished lecturing him I uncinched the saddle, laid it one side on the ground, took hold of the end of the long bridle, and told him to roll. A droll abstracted look came into his eyes, he dropped on his knees and, with a sudden convulsion, threw his heels into the air and rolled back and forth, rubbing his backbone vigorously on the sand. After that, the first thing every morning when we got to the oaks, I unsaddled him and let him roll, and then he would stand with bare back keeping cool in the shade of the trees.

One morning as we stood under the bush-tit's tree, I discovered a pair of turtle doves looking out at me from the leaves of the small oak opposite, craning their necks and moving their heads uneasily. One of them seemed to be shaping a nest of twigs. I drew Billy around between us, so that my staring would seem less pointed, and when one of the pair flew to the ground to spy at me, hurriedly looked the other way to remove his anxiety. His mate soon joined him, and the two doves walked away together, fixed their feathers in the sun, stretched their wings, and lazily picked at the ground. When one whirred back to the nest, the other soon followed. The gentle lovers put their bills together, while, unnoticed, I stood behind Billy, looking on and thinking that it was little wonder such birds should rise from the ground with a musical whirr.

Billy's oak was the last of the high trees in the garden. Above it was a grassy space where bright wild flowers bloomed, and pretty cottontail rabbits often went ambling over the soft turf. On one side of the opening was a low stocky oak, full of balls of mistletoe, and on the other a great blossoming bush buzzing with hummingbirds. The mistletoe had begun to sap the little oak, and on one of its dead twigs a hummingbird had taken to perching. I wondered if he were the idle mate of one of my small garden builders, but he sat and sunned himself as if his conscience were quite clear.

My first experience with gnatcatchers had been here. I suspected a nest, and the ranchman's daughter went with me to hunt through the brush. She cautioned me to look out for rattlesnakes, but the brush was so dense and the ground so covered with crooked snake-like sticks that it was not an easy matter to tell what you were stepping on. Then, the poison oak was so thick that I felt like holding up my hands to avoid it. We pushed our way through the dense chaparral, and my fearless companion got down on her hands and knees to look through the tangle for the nest. It was hard disagreeable work, even if one did not object to snakes, and we were soon so tired that we were ready to sit down and let the birds show us to their house. We might have saved ourselves all the trouble if we had done this to begin with, for it was only a few moments before the little pair went to the mistletoe oak, out in plain sight and within easy reach—how they would have laughed in their sleeves had they known what we were hunting for back in the brush! The nest was about the size of a chilicothe pod, and so covered with lichen that it looked just like a knot on the tree.

Around the blossoming bush the air fairly vibrated with hummers, darting up into the sky, shooting down and chasing each other pell mell—sometimes almost into my face. As I sat by the bush one day, a handsome male went around with upraised throat, poking his bill up the red fuchsia-like tubes. Another one was flying around inside the bush, and I edged nearer to see. The sun shone in, whitening the twigs, and as the bird whirred about with a soft burring sound, I caught gleams of red, gold, and green from his gorget, and could see the tiny bird rest his wee feet on a twig to reach up to a blossom. Then he hummed what sounded more like a love song than anything I had ever heard from a hummingbird. He seemed so much more like a real bird than any of his brothers that I felt attracted to him.

One morning a little German girl, in a red pinafore, and with hair flying, came riding down the sand stream toward my bush. Her colt reared and pranced, but she sat as firmly as if she had been a small centaur. It was a holiday, and she was staking out her horses to graze, making gala-day work of it. She had one horse down by the little oak already, and springing off the one she had brought, changed about, jumped as lightly as a bird upon the other's back and raced home. Soon she came galloping back again, and so she went and came until tired out, for pure fun on her free holiday.

In looking over the bright memory pictures of my beautiful oak garden, there is one to which I always return. The spreading trunks of a great five-stemmed tree on one side of the grove made a dark oaken couch, screened by the leafy willow-like branches that hung to the ground. Here—after looking to see that there were no rattlesnakes coiled in the dead leaves—I spent many a dreamy hour, reclining idly as I listened to the free songs of the birds that could not see me behind my curtain. It was interesting to note the way certain sounds predominated; certain songs would absorb one's attention, and then pass and be replaced by others. At one time a jay's scream would jar on the ear and drown all other voices; when that had passed, the chewinks would fly up from the leaves and sing and answer each other till the air was quivering with their trills. Then came the thrashers, with their loud rollicking songs; and when they had pitched down into the brush, out rang the clear bell-like tones of the wren-tit, filling the air with sound. Afterwards the impatient whipped-out notes of the chaparral vireo were followed by the soft cooing of doves; and then, as the wind stirred the trees and sent the loosened oak blossoms drifting to the ground, from high out of an oak top came a most exquisite song. At the first note of this grosbeak all other songs were forgotten—they were noise and chatter—this was pure music. It was like passing from the cries of the street into the hall of a symphony concert. The black-headed grosbeak has not the spirituality of the hermit thrush, and his ordinary song is not so remarkable, but his love song excels that of any bird I have ever heard in finish, rich melody, and music. As I listened, my surroundings harmonized so perfectly with the wonderful song echoing through the great trees that the old oak garden seemed an enchanted bower. The drooping branches were a leafy lattice through which the afternoon sun filtered, steeping the oaks in thick still sunshine. Last year's leaves drifted slowly to the ground, while the bees droned about the yellow tassels of the blooming trees. As a violinist, lingering to perfect a note, draws his bow again and again over the strings, so this rapt musician dwelt tenderly on his highest notes, trolling them over till each was more exquisite and tender than the last, and the ear was charmed with his love song—a song of ideal love fit to be dreamed of in this stately green oak garden filled with golden sunlight.