y brother and I were both delighted to see the first number of Bird-Lore, and take the opportunity of congratulating our naturalist and photographic chums across the Atlantic upon having such a practical and highly interesting magazine to help them in their enchanting pursuits. Such a publication would have been a veritable godsend to us when we started our natural history photography.

As we have had a good deal of experience in circumventing the cunning and timidity of the majority of wild creatures living in the British Isles, and the same characteristics in this respect are common to wild animals all the world over, I propose to tell by what means we have secured some of our rarest pictures.

First of all, I ought to explain that we never use anything but a strongly built, half-plate stand camera, fitted with a Dallmeyer stigmatic lens, and an adjustable miniature on the top, which is used as a sort of view-finder when making studies of flying birds and mammals in motion. When fixed in position, and its focus has been set exactly like its working companion beneath it, both are racked out in the same ratio by the screw dominating the larger apparatus which, when charged with a dark slide and stopped down according to the requirements of light and speed of exposure, needs no further attention. When the combination is in use, the photographer focuses with his right hand, and, holding the air ball or reservoir of his pneumatic tube in his left, squeezes it quickly and firmly directly he has achieved a sufficiently clear and strong definition of his object upon the ground glass of the miniature camera. This enables the operator to focus up to the last instant, and to select the best attitude of his "sitter."

We have a silent time-shutter built in behind the lens, and for very rapid work, such as flying bird studies, use a Thornton & Pickard focal plane shutter working up to the thousandth part of a second.

Good apparatus, that will work under almost any conditions with precision and certainty, must be possessed for the achievement of successful natural history work. We use the quickest plates made in the old country for the greater part of our work, although, of course, for still objects full of color, we cannot beat Ilford chromatic plates.

We soon discovered that it was absolutely impossible to figure many timid birds at close quarters without some natural contrivance in which the camera and its operator could be effectually hidden. For the study of wood birds at home, we built an artificial tree trunk of sufficient internal capacity to contain either of two broad-shouldered Yorkshiremen. This is how we made it. Purchasing three pieces of stout bamboo, each 7 feet in length, I split them down the center and lashed each piece to three children's bowling hoops, the topmost and center ones being 24 inches in diameter, and the bottom one 27, so as to represent the base of a tree and give the legs of our camera a greater stride. We then covered the whole with galvanized wire and a coat of green American cloth, which my wife painted to resemble the bark of a tree. After this we stuck bits of lichen and moss on to it, and then passed a number of bits of strong grey thread from the inside to the out. With these we tied on several pieces of ivy stripped from adjoining tree trunks, so as to make our contrivance look as natural as possible. How far we succeeded in deceiving the feathered folks of Britain may be judged, when I state that one day a Chaffinch alighted on the broken top of our artificial forest monster and began to rattle off its song just over the unseen photographer's head.

We should much like to hear of this device being tried by someone on American wood birds. Whoever makes and gets laced up inside an artificial tree trunk will discover that a peculiarly dizzying sensation attends the first attempt or two to stand for any length of time so encased.

For some birds we fix up a mock camera near their nests or feeding haunts a few days before we attempt to make a picture. This can be easily done with a small wooden box and tin canister with its lid or bottom blackened to represent a lens.

For photographing ground builders, such as Larks, Plovers, and so on, we built an artificial rubbish heap, such as farmers rake up off their grass land before laying it down to grow for hay time, and cart off to form rick bottoms.

This we made from an old umbrella, to the ribs of which we lashed pieces of bamboo four feet in length. The whole was then covered with brown holland. To the outside we tied innumerable wisps of straw and rubbish, and as some sort of testimony to its efficacy, I need only mention that we have succeeded in photographing a Lark at her nest bang in the middle of a bare field, and one of our very shyest British Plovers, quite recently, sitting on its nest within a few feet of the lens.

We next come to a consideration of how to photograph the eyries, eggs and young of such birds of prey as Eagles, Falcons and Ravens, that breed, at any rate so far as Britain is concerned, in the most inaccessible cliffs.

The first business is to secure a couple of climbing ropes. We had ours specially manufactured for us, from the best manila hemp, by a London rope-maker of good repute. They are each two hundred feet in length. The guide rope is an inch and a half in circumference, and the descending rope, which has three loops at one end for the photographer to sit in, is two inches in circumference. It will thus be seen that both ropes are pretty stout, some folks might say unnecessarily stout, but it is better to be on the safe side, as a break and a fall of three or four hundred feet onto jagged crags or into the sea would be likely to send the photographer into perpetual retirement.

It is a curious thing, but nevertheless true, that fictionists have fixed one idea in the mind of the public in regard to the danger attending a man hanging over a precipice on the end of a rope; viz., that all his danger comes from a probability of one or two of the strands of his rope getting chafed in two over some sharp rock. I am frequently asked, after my lectures, the question: "Has your brother ever had a narrow escape from the rope nearly getting chafed in twain?" They seem genuinely disappointed because he has not been hauled up on the last faithful strand of a rope, with his hair standing on end, his face o'erspread with an unspeakable horror, and then fainted dead away on reaching terra firma.

I have heard a lot of terrible tales about chafing ropes, but as a matter of fact, there are dangers a thousand times greater if less picturesque; such, for instance, as a prosaic little stone, no bigger than an orange, being dragged out of its bed by one of the ropes when the photographer is being hauled up a cliff, and, after dropping a hundred feet or so, alighting plump on the head of the unsuspecting camera man. My brother has had one or two narrow escapes of this kind, though never the shadow of one from a chafing rope.

Upon setting forth to photograph the eyries of cliff-breeding birds, we equip ourselves with (1) our ropes; (2) a stout crowbar; (3) a good, strong, level-headed assistant (nervous or careless assistants should be studiously avoided, as the one kind of man is as dangerous as the other), that can be relied upon; (4) a revolver; (5) a camera; (6) a photographer who, in addition to being a good athlete and gymnast, possesses no nerves at all, and can, in consequence, stand on the very lip of a cliff a thousand feet sheer, as he would do on the gutter edge of a sidewalk, and look straight below him.

I would advise all who do not possess the above qualities, more or less, to leave cliff photography severely alone, as walking backwards into a yawning abyss, even on the end of a good, stout rope, feels uncommonly like stepping into eternity, and I would not like to have the blood of any American cousin on my head.

Upon reaching the edge of any precipice wherein we suspect, say an Eagle, to be breeding, we step as close to the lip of the crag as possible. I hold the revolver over my head, fire, and watch to see where a bird flies out. Should one do so we mark the spot, drive our crowbar into the ground above it, tie one end of the guide rope securely to it and fling the rest down into the chasm below. The photographer lashes his camera to his back, dons the three loops at the end of the descending rope round his hips, the rope is then passed once round the crowbar, and the assistant pays it out from behind, whilst the photographer, steadying himself by means of the guide-rope, literally walks backwards down the cliff. Before going down, however, he takes good care to clear away all the loose stones and rubble, for if he did not do so they would be sure to be dislodged by the rope when he comes up.

Upon reaching an eyrie, if it is situated on a ledge wide enough to set the tripod of the camera on, he does so and makes his studies, taking good care not to let go his ropes.

If the nest should be on a ledge too narrow to set the apparatus upon, my brother passes two of the legs of his tripod through a belt round his waist and the third into any convenient crevice he can find, and with his body practically at right angles to the face of the crag and his camera almost resting on his chest, focuses and takes his picture.

I feel that I have barely touched the fringe of my subject in this short article, but I have no doubt that to the man equipped with a decent camera and a genuine love of nature, the hints I have given will be sufficient to set him to work natural history picture-making, and, as an old farmer, I know enough of American ingenuity in tool-making to convince me that there is no bird or beast living in the western world that cannot be photographed, living, loving, and laboring in its free, open-air home. Any way, every reader of Bird-Lore has the best wishes of the brothers Kearton.

Two Nova Scotia Photographs

BY C. WILL BEEBE

With photographs from nature by the author.

The slate-colored Junco or Snowbird breeds very abundantly in the fields of Digby county, Nova Scotia, and its neat nests are often so artistically placed that they are a continual temptation to the naturalist photographer. One nest, in particular, with four eggs, was especially beautiful, seen through the ground glass of the camera, the contrast between the eggs and the waxy green leaves and scarlet fruit of the bunch-berries near it making one long for color photography. This nest was in a field, five feet from a road, and partly protected by a tiny bank of turf.

Five days after the photograph was taken the eggs hatched, and four balls of long, jet-black fuzz appeared. Daily twelve-hour meals of green measuring-worms, provided by the parents, wrought marvels in the appearance of the young birds, and in a surprisingly short time a second suit of streaked black and brown was assumed. In this, perhaps, the facsimile of their ancestors' plumage, they left the nest, and apparently lost individuality among the large flocks of their species.

Another abundant summer bird of this part of Nova Scotia is the Night-hawk, the name being almost a misnomer, as they are visible in numbers, flying all day. But all do not depart from their usual custom of sleeping during the day, as is shown in the accompanying photograph, taken about 11 A. M. one August day, 1898. While walking along a railroad track, I noticed this bird resting in a fallen trunk about four feet from the track. I focused my camera and made the exposure without disturbing the bird in the least. A train had passed not long before, so it could hardly have been asleep more than an hour. The characteristic longitudinal position assumed by this bird in perching is well shown, and its protective coloring makes it appear a mere excrescence on the bark.

When it awoke what a dream it might relate to its companions of being approached by a horrible one-eyed, three-legged creature, which at a glance made it immortal!

The photograph of the Junco's nest and eggs was made with a 128 opening and a 4-second exposure, while that of the Night-hawk was stopped at 64, with an exposure of two seconds.

In the Spartina with the Swallows

BY O. WIDMANN

Maple Lake, in St. Charles county, Mo., is one of a series of lakes situated between the bluffs and the Mississippi River. The bluffs are four to five miles from the river bank, thus leaving a wide stretch of alluvial land, lowest toward the bluffs, forming an extended, nearly level marsh, mostly too wet and poor for cultivation, and covered with square miles of cord-grass (Spartina cynosuroides). In dry summers or on higher levels it reaches only a height of three or four feet, but in wet summers, as for instance in 1898, it attains the stately height of six to eight feet, with such a dense growth of rigid leaves that it is hard work to walk or even drive through. As a commercial article it is worth very little, though it will make good paper. When young it is liked by horses and cattle, and when two feet high it makes pretty good hay, which is sometimes baled and sold as prairie hay.

But while man does not yet know how to make good use of it, birds do, especially some species of the families HirundinidÆ and IcteridÆ—the Swallow and Blackbird families—who find in the spartina the material for a good and safe dormitory. Hundreds of acres of this grass cover the region about Maple Lake, and as they are within the confines of one of the best managed club grounds, where neither plow nor cattle, neither drainage nor fire are allowed, they serve many kinds of birds for a roosting place at all seasons of the year, but especially in fall migration.

Of Swallows, the most numerous frequenters are the Eaves, the Tree or White-breasts, and the Roughwings, and they show their appreciation of this rare place of security and peace by coming early in the season and staying late. When the Eaves have become strangers at their breeding stations for a long time, the marsh is the place to find them in plenty. Here is the place to look for the first White-breast of the year as early as the second week of March, and for the last, in the third week of October. For two months, from the middle of August to the middle of October, a cloud of Swallows may be seen every evening, just before dark, hovering over the most remote and inaccessible part of the immense spartina waste, and wherever you are in the marsh in the late afternoon, you cannot fail to notice innumerable Swallows skimming the grassy ocean and the adjacent lakes. If toward sunset you watch them closely, you will find that, though they may linger long on some favorite hunting ground, the general trend is toward one particular region, and if you will wait long enough, you will find that they have all disappeared in that direction and that, when almost dark, belated parties passing by go in a straight line direct for the same unknown destination. Certainly a most interesting sight for the naturalist to see so many of these lovely, lively, likely creatures passing over, about and around you, all governed by one idea, all driven by one common impulse, all eager to reach the same aim, the common roost! Where is the roost? Where do all these birds spend the night? How do they retire in the evening, and what is their conduct when they leave their night-quarters in the morning?

In spite of their large numbers and generally unconcealed activity, the answer to these questions is not quite easy. Otherwise confiding creatures, Swallows are careful to keep the exact location of their roost as much as possible a secret from the outer world. Neither the persons who live in the neighborhood of the marsh, nor the hunters who desecrate its sanctity, could tell you where the Swallows roost. It requires the persistent efforts and full attention of the naturalist to show you where and how his favorite bird goes to rest and how it sets out and enters upon the duties and pleasures of another day. You have to be after nightfall, alone with the mosquitos and other pests, in the wide, wet and pathless marsh, and again before the faintest glimmer announces the approach of day.

But select a day in the latter part of August or the first half of September, and follow me. We are up early, to be on the grounds before 5 A. M.; the stars are vanishing, one after the other, and the first dawn appears on the eastern horizon; the air is cool and misty, the grass loaded with heavy dew, but we have to plow our way through as best we can. By previous observation we have located the whereabouts of our birds, and we are now fast approaching their sanctum, all alive and alert for the expected disclosures.

Before this, only the hooting of the Barred Owl in the distant woods had broken the silence, but now comes from the depth of his private retreat, the sleepy 'seewick' of the Henslow's Sparrow, and at the same time the weak but lively 'chip chip churr' of the Short-billed Marsh Wren. 'Pink, pink, pink' exclaims the Bobolink, whom we have startled from his slumber of repose, and, as we advance, up go some Swallows, one by one, to the right, to the left, in front of us, not in masses or bunches, but singly, every few yards one or two flying up, silent, and on wings heavy with dew.

Dawn has been making fast progress the last few minutes, and we can see quite a little distance through the misty air. Now is the time when the Swallows begin of their own accord to leave their perch down in the depths of the spartina and fly with heavy wing through the cool and foggy layer below into the clearer atmosphere above, where the sun's first rays will soon dispel the chilly dampness of their plumage.

While we are still absorbed in the astounding spectacle, daylight is stealing quietly into the novel scene, and discloses the presence of greater and greater numbers of Swallows as far as the eye can reach. Many have gained enormous heights, and are soaring majestically in the sun-kissed zenith. Not so voiceless as the Swallows do the Bobolinks leave the roost. Their pink is continually in the air, and numerous parties are seen passing over, drifting into all directions of the compass. Some alight again, all in their yellow traveling suits, with the exception of one who has a little song for us and wears a somewhat mottled garb with whitish rump. Long-stretched flocks of Redwings pass in one direction, troops of Frackles in another; but, on the whole they do not present anything like the grand spectacle they will later in the year, when migration sends millions of them to this marsh.

The sun is up now, and a little wind is stirring and dispels the clammy dampness of the air. Short-bills sing on all sides, and a few Marylands and Henslows are also heard to sing. Great Blue Herons are on the move, and the Marsh Hawk is at work. A Bittern wings its way across the marsh, attended by a committee of inquisitive young Eaves. There is a peculiar movement now among the Swallows. They seem to concentrate their forces. Let us follow them, and be treated to an unexpected sight.

Fifty thousand Eave Swallows are seated on the protruding tops of sunflowers, which grow here among the spartina in restricted areas, covering a few acres in the middle of the marsh! They sit, several on one plant, as close together as the branches and their weight allow. We draw nearer, until we are within twenty yards of the assembly. The birds must see us, but do not mind, and we have excellent opportunity to watch them. Their numbers are still swelling. The long, narrow, ridge-like stretch of sunflowers is filling up more and more. From the north comes a steady flow of Eaves, all bound for the convention.

It is now 6 A. M.; the influx of arrivals from the north has ceased, and all seem ready for the opening of the session; but they do not look as if they were going to transact important business. Some fly up from time to time, draw a few circles and sit down again. Most of them look tired, as if they had already performed a most fatiguing task. The majority are young fellows, all Eaves, in pale attire, some so small as if not fully grown; but there are also many adults in high dress among them. All are enjoying their rest, some are preening their feathers, others half close their eyes and puff up their plumage, as if going to sleep. There are still some high up in the ether enjoying their enviable wing power; others are hunting low over the marsh, in company with Whitebreasts.

Although the two species hunt, fly and roost together, they do not hold their meetings together. The Whitebreasts' assemblages are held over water. They betake themselves to a pond or lake, and find a perch on the pods, stalks and projecting leaves of the lotus (Nelumbo lutea), with which some of these shallow waters of the marsh are literally covered. There is a small pond only a quarter of a mile from the sunflower patch, and this is now just full of Whitebreasts. Now and then a little cloud of them rises from the pond, and after a few evolutions settles down again. There are only a few hundred; the height of their autumnal wandering is several weeks behind that of the Eaves. These are most numerous in late August and early September; but, as their number decreases, that of the Whitebreasts increases, reaching the height at the time the Eaves depart.

In summer the roost belongs almost entirely to the Eaves, who flock here from the surrounding country. So do the Roughwings, a few hundred only, and some Barn Swallows and Whitebreasts, which two species are not numerous breeders in this region.

As soon as migration begins, about the middle of August, the Eaves are greatly reinforced, and for the next four weeks enormous numbers are present, but it is probable that they are not always the same individuals, as their numbers vary from day to day. It seems they perform their migrations by stages, from roost to roost, employing mainly the first hour of the morning for their flights, spending the day resting and feeding in the region surrounding the roost. The substitution of arriving Whitebreasts for departing Eaves is in the beginning almost imperceptible, but at last we see that the one has taken the place of the other entirely. The Roughwings become more numerous in early September, and many remain, with a few Barn Swallows, into October, but the latter are never conspicuous at this roost. Martins and Bank Swallows are only accidental visitors to this roost. The Whitebreasts remain numerous to the middle of October, and small detachments linger even a week longer.

Most of the Eaves that have been gathering on the sunflowers before 6 A. M. are still there at 8 A. M., and the Whitebreasts are also on the lotus yet; but an hour later, when the sun has heated the marsh and started the winged insects on their aËrial mission, the time for activity has arrived, and the meetings are adjourned, the birds dispersed. We, too, will adjourn, with the promise to be back for another meeting in the evening. When migration is well under way, the collecting of the Eaves and Whitebreasts begins early in the evening; in fact, large droves are met at all hours of the day, playfully gyrating in the blue heavens above, or describing endless curves upon the glittering marsh beneath. The Roughwings are seldom seen in the marsh in daytime. As soon as they leave the roost at early dawn, they hurry away to their accustomed haunts along the water courses in the timber, where they collect on the branches of a dead tree on the bank, if possible over water. There they sit, soon after daybreak, fifty to one hundred together, silent and lost in meditation, patiently awaiting the dissipation of the vapory dimness, the signal for activity. They are greatly attached to these meeting-places, and resort to them often in daytime as well as in the evening. Indeed, these gatherings of Roughwings on certain dead trees along our woodland lakes and streams are quite a feature of the landscape from July till October. Often their ranks are considerably swelled by an admixture of other Swallows—oftenest the Bank Swallows, who join them on their entomologizing excursions, and find it congenial to spend some time on the same perch with their gentle cousins.

In fall migration, the different kinds of Swallows like to mix, hunt and rest together, and it is nothing rare to find four or five species sitting side by side. To be sure of a full view of the whole performance, we are in the marsh as early as 5 P. M., and take a stand west of the roost to have a good light, and also to be in a position where we can overlook part of Maple Lake, over which a large number of Swallows take their way. Indeed, we find them already plentiful, and watch their actions. A few dozens are sitting on the plant stalks projecting from the water, mostly Whitebreasts. From the west comes a pretty steady stream of Eaves. When they reach the spot where the Whitebreasts are gathering now, they pause a moment, and, hovering, take a drink, several at once, after which they continue their course. Is it not strange that they seem to think that this is the only place for Eaves to drink, though the lake is half a mile long?

Bobolinks also arrive in the marsh; small parties pass over, and their pink is often in the air. It is now 5.30 P. M. More Eaves come, drink, and move on. We move, too, following them through the high spartina until we see in the distance an oasis of black dots in the yellow sea of grasses. While we are still advancing, a Pigeon Hawk darts over our heads, going straight for the oasis. In less than no time the black dots take wing and up goes the whole congregation of Eaves, up, up, scattering to all winds, and disappearing for several minutes. But the disturber is gone, and the frightened birds find courage to return and sit down again on their favorite weeds, from which they can overlook the marsh for miles around.

The Bobolinks, for whose special benefit the Hawk's visit was this time meant, are still hovering in the air, but new troops arrive, and after some aimless drifting all settle down to roost amongst the grasses.

The sun is down now, and perfect streams of Swallows are flowing from all sides toward the oasis in the center. This is the moment when the Whitebreasts, who for the last hour have been congregating on the lotus of the neighboring lakes, mingle with the passing Eaves and accompany them to the common roost. The Roughwings, too, have left their haunts and are appearing in the marsh.

The light of day is waning fast, and the smoky air gets dim and misty. The assembled Eaves are now seen to rise in clouds from their oasis, mix their forces with the invading army, and the grandest spectacle ensues. At first it looks as if confusion reigned, but soon the hosts of fleet-winged birds no longer whirl aimlessly through space. All mass and muster, and perform strange evolutions with amazing swiftness and precision. Now we see them scattering and spreading over the whole area on which they intend to roost, apparently to make sure that no danger lurks beneath the grasses. Here they come, skimming, almost touching, the spartina, pass by, and speed onward until lost to sight for a few moments, when all at once a great cloud of moving specks is visible in the distant sky. The specks are Swallows, and the cloud has life; it moves, it rolls, it swells, it comes, it breaks and, like a torrent of wing-borne arrows, darts upon us, scattering and spreading out, as it descends for another wild dash low over the spartina.

The same wonderful maneuvers repeat themselves as long as the evening twilight lasts, and, though with each descent the cloud does shrink in size, it does not cease to rise again until black night has fully settled down, and even after dark small droves of bewildered birds rush madly by our side. Being well within the range of the now settled birds, we cannot go away without disturbing some in their repose; although they are dispersed over a large area, every now and then one will be seen to scamper out and vanish in the darkness.

Watching the Bittern 'Pump'

BY BRADFORD TORREY

Since I printed, in 'The Auk' (Vol. vi, p. 1), a description of the Bittern's vocal performances, I have witnessed a repetition of them on three occasions; and the story of my successes, such as they are, may be encouraging to the younger readers of Bird-Lore.

The remarkable sounds, sometimes likened to those of an old-fashioned wooden pump, sometimes to those made by a man driving a stake in wet soil (and the likeness is unmistakable, not to say perfect, in both cases), must have attracted attention, we may suppose, ever since the settlement of the country. The dullest person could not hear them, it would seem, without wondering how and by what they were produced. But up to the time of my 'Auk' article, there was only one authentic record, so far as I am aware, that the bird had ever been seen in the act of uttering them. For my own part, having never lived near a meadow adapted to the Bittern's purposes, I had never so much as heard his famous 'boom,' though references to it here and there, in the writings of Thoreau especially, had given me a lively desire to do so. It was a strange accident, surely, that the first Bittern I had ever heard should show himself so openly and for so long a time. Beginners' luck, we may call it, and be thankful that such providential encouragements are not so very uncommon. As the Scripture says, "The last shall be first."

On the 2d of May, 1889, a year after the observations recorded in 'The Auk' article, I was lying upon a cliff on the edge of a cat-tail swamp, listening for Rail notes or a Least Bittern's coo, when a Bittern, very much to my surprise, pumped almost at my feet. By good luck a small wooded peninsula jutted into the swamp just at that point (the swamp, I regret to say, has since been converted into a town reservoir), and, keeping in the shelter of rocks and trees, I stole out to its very tip unobserved. Two or three times the notes were repeated, but I could get no sight of the performer. Then, all in a flash, he stood before me—as no doubt he had been doing all the while—in full view, just across a narrow space of open water against a patch of cat-tails. He had taken no alarm, and pumped six or eight times while I stood, opera-glass in hand, watching his slightest motion. Then he stalked away into the reeds, pumped twice,—behind the scenes, as it were,—and fell silent.

Two days later I went to the Wayland meadows, where I had seen my bird of the year previous, and there, seated upon the railroad embankment, as before, I watched a Bittern pump at short intervals for more than an hour. Most of the time he was more or less hidden by the low grass, through which he was slowly traveling down the meadow; but once, coming near the remains of a last year's haycock, he went a little out of his way, mounted it, and boomed in full sight. The Bittern is a wader and a recluse, but once in a while, it appears, he has no objection to a clear platform and dry feet.

I felt myself highly favored. Twice within three days I had been admitted to "assist" at mysteries of which Thoreau, who spent his life in the best of Bittern country, had never obtained so much as a glimpse.

Exactly a year afterward (May 4, 1890) I was strolling along a road near home, when from a meadow beside it came the now familiar pumping notes. I made toward the spot, and by the help of a clump of alder bushes approached within a very short distance of the bird, who stood in short grass, quite unconcealed. A migratory visitor only, he must have been, for I am certain that no Bittern ever summered in that place during my years of residence near it. I watched him at his work till I was tired. Then, bethinking myself of a friend and neighbor who knew nothing about birds, but had once expressed to me a curiosity about the 'Stake-driver,' I walked to the village, rang his doorbell, and invited him to go back with me to see the show. The showman was still rehearsing, and we stole upon him without difficulty, and saw as much as we wished of his doings. Though it was Sunday morning, and the bird was as serious as any parson, we took the liberty of laughing a little at his absurd contortions.

Since then I have heard the Bittern's music on sundry occasions, but never have found it possible to come within sight of him in the act of making it. Once, I remember, I was sitting upon a roadside fence, reading, when a carriage stopped and an unrecognized feminine voice said: "Do you see that Heron behind you, Mr. Torrey?" The "Heron" was Botaurus lentiginosus, in a bit of low ground close by a house. I shut my book and gave him my attention, which he presently rewarded by catching and swallowing a snake. This was in autumn, when Bitterns, like lesser birds, are liable to turn up in unexpected quarters. The reader may take the incident, if he will, as a warning against the reading of print out of doors. As a general thing, we may safely say, Nature's page is better than a book.

One season a friend and myself became much interested in the question as to the relative 'carrying power' of the three notes or syllables of which the Bittern's music is composed. The discussion began by our hearing a single far-away note, repeated at the proper intervals, at a time when we could not well follow it up. Later investigation, to our no small surprise, compelled us to settle down upon the conclusion that the first note was the one last to be lost as we traveled away from the bird. We were surprised, I say, for the second note is the one which bears, or seems to bear, the accent. Plum-pud-d'n, the creature appears to say, with an emphasis fairly to be called violent upon the middle note. Why, then, should not the middle note be heard farthest? What is emphasis, anyhow, if not, as the dictionary says, a "special force of voice." Could there be something peculiar, we asked ourselves, in the quality of the first syllable, which made it carry beyond the others? We discussed the matter eagerly, trudging to and fro to make certain of the fact itself, and agreed, if I remember rightly, upon a plausible explanation. As I review the case, however, I am so much in doubt as to the correctness of our theory that it seems quite as well not to state it, but to leave the question to any Bird-Lore reader who may some day have nothing better to do than to investigate it for himself.

Hints to Young Bird Students[F]

It has always been our experience that young bird students who have just crossed the threshold of ornithology are glad to turn for a word of advice and assistance to their older brethren, who have already made some progress in the science; and it has always been a pleasure for us to give such aid. In view of these facts, we take this opportunity of offering a few words of counsel for the benefit of those who are beginning the study of birds.

Doubtless every beginner looks upon the formation of a collection as necessarily the first step on the ornithological ladder; and probably a collection of eggs is preferred to a collection of birds, because the specimens can be prepared much more readily.

Soon you meet complaints from well meaning persons who object to robbing birds' nests, and you reply that you are collecting for scientific purposes. Very good; science has need of you all, but do you know what scientific ornithology—real ornithology—is?

Are you not influenced, to some extent, at least, by "oÖlogical" magazines and dealers' price-lists of eggs, from which you learn that it is important to secure series of sets,—which means hundreds and thousands of eggs,—and wherein you also learn the market price of this or that egg, and value your specimens accordingly,—just as you do your postage stamps? This is not science, and the men who advocate this sort of collecting, and who have the largest collections of eggs, rarely contribute anything to our knowledge of birds, and are not advancing the science of ornithology.

If you must have a collection, a few sets of eggs (often a single set) of each species of bird will answer all your purposes. There is nothing to be gained by the collecting of a series, except the extermination of the birds, which is surely not your object.

On the other hand, there is a vast amount of bird work that you can do to help the science of ornithology and gain a reputation for yourself.

There are hundreds of facts regarding the distribution of birds, their habits, etc., which are still unknown, and you should make it your aim to become an authority on the birds of your region, and keep records of all your observations as to migration, habits, abundance, etc. You will find ample opportunity for work, as every year will bring to light new facts, and the more you contribute to our knowledge of the birds the more you will see what an insignificant matter the formation of an egg collection is in comparison with real ornithology.

In the case of birds, it is justifiable to shoot specimens which are new to you for purposes of identification, but you should make the best use of the bird before you kill it, so that it will not be necessary to shoot more of the same kind in order to tell what they are. Your aim should be to learn to recognize birds at sight and by their notes, and you will find you will learn more of value by a study of the living bird than by collecting skins.

The exact knowledge that we now possess of the coloration, etc., of North American birds, and the large collections available for study in the museums, render it entirely unnecessary for every bird student to form a collection. Those who undertake any special line of study will soon learn what specimens are required and collect accordingly, instead of amassing a large number of specimens with no particular object in view.

These suggestions are not made with a faultfinding or sentimental feeling, but in a friendly spirit, for the purpose of counteracting the effect of the advice of egg dealers and traders, who seem bent upon developing our budding students into "egg hogs" instead of ornithologists.

We have all killed birds and collected eggs, but not to a useless excess, and have always, we believe, made real use of our collections in adding to the knowledge of birds and advancing the science of ornithology.

As active members of the American Ornithologists' Union, we are only too glad to encourage the study of birds and aid the beginner, but unless some steps be taken against this useless egg collecting, the extermination of some at least of our birds will soon be effected.

We ask your earnest consideration of these points, and trust you will aid us by your influence and example in advancing true ornithology, and in discouraging the waste of bird-life occasioned by this "fad" of egg collecting.

Fall Migration at Portland, Conn.

BY JOHN H. SAGE

I. AVERAGE DATES OF DEPARTURE OF THE COMMONER SUMMER RESIDENT BIRDS

September 1 to 10

Least Bittern, Black-billed Cuckoo, Least Flycatcher, Baltimore Oriole, Veery.

September 10 to 20

Kingbird, Cliff Swallow, Purple Martin, Warbling Vireo, White-eyed Vireo, Prairie Warbler, Wood Thrush.

September 20 to 30

Spotted Sandpiper, Whip-poor-will, Hummingbird, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Bank Swallow, Yellow-throated Vireo, Nashville Warbler, Yellow Warbler, Redstart, Ovenbird, House Wren.

October 1 to 10

Green Heron, Nighthawk, Chimney Swift, Wood Pewee, Scarlet Tanager, Red-eyed Vireo, Black and White Warbler, Parula Warbler.

October 10 to 20

Virginia Rail, Black-crowned Night Heron, Cooper's Hawk, Yellow-billed Cuckoo, Phoebe, Bobolink, Indigo Bunting, Barn Swallow, Catbird, Brown Thrasher, Short-billed Marsh Wren.

October 20 to 31

American Bittern, Sharp-shinned Hawk, Red-winged Blackbird, Meadow Lark, Field Sparrow, Vesper, Savanna and Chipping Sparrows, Towhee, Tree Swallow, Black-throated Green Warbler, Maryland Yellow-throat, Long-billed Marsh Wren.

November 1 to 30

Woodcock, Mourning Dove, Marsh Hawk, Kingfisher, Flicker, Bronzed Grackle, Cowbird, Song Sparrow, Swamp Sparrow, Robin.

II. DATES OF ARRIVAL OF MIGRANTS FROM THE NORTH

August 15 to 31

Great Blue Heron, Small-billed Water Thrush.

September 1 to 10

Yellow Rail, Least Sandpiper, Solitary Sandpiper, Osprey, Blackburnian Warbler, Yellow Palm Warbler, Canadian Warbler[A].

September 10 to 20

Pied-billed Grebe, Blue-winged Teal, Wilson's Snipe, Pigeon Hawk, Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, Rusty Blackbird, White-throated Sparrow, Philadelphia Vireo, Bay-breasted Warbler, Black-poll Warbler, Connecticut Warbler, Red-breasted Nuthatch, Grey-cheeked Thrush.

September 20 to 30

Loon, Black Duck, American Coot, Pectoral Sandpiper, Semi-palmated Sandpiper, Greater Yellow-legs, Nelson's Sparrow, Junco, Lincoln's Sparrow, Black-throated Blue Warbler[G], Myrtle Warbler, Magnolia Warbler[G], Pine Warbler, Wilson's Warbler[G], American Pipit, Winter Wren, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Olive-backed Thrush.

October 1 to 10

Green-winged Teal, Pintail, American Scoter, White-winged Scoter, Short-eared Owl, White-crowned Sparrow, Blue-headed Vireo, Brown Creeper, Golden-crowned Kinglet, Hermit Thrush.

October 10 to 20

Red-throated Loon, American Scaup Duck, Old-squaw, Surf Scoter, Ruddy Duck, Canada Goose, American Golden Plover, American Goshawk, Fox Sparrow.

October 20 to 31

Hooded Merganser, Baldpate, Lesser Scaup Duck, Ring-necked Duck, Buffle-head, Snowflake, Tree Sparrow, Northern Shrike.

November 1 to 20

Red-breasted Merganser, Mallard, Snowy Owl, Pine Siskin.

Mr. Flicker Writes a Letter

BY GARRETT NEWKIRK