A Study of the Birds of Santiago Canyon.
MOLLIE BRYAN ORANGE CALIFORNIA.
Concluded
I RETURN to the shade of the oaks and the hammock, and the scene is changed. The woodpecker and bluejay are busy stealing from the kettle of mush as it cools on the stove for the pack of fox hounds. The Lark Sparrow comes quietly into the basin under the vines for water. The Spurred Towhee is scratching among the leaves with its ac- customed vigor. The California Thrasher comes at the call of "huita, huita" for its share of mush or bread crumbs, and lingers to dig with its long sickle-shaped bill, among the flower beds. A blue- jay cocks up one eye and come to see what is in the hole, driving the thrasher away and digging in exact imitation of it. The day goes out with the sweet vesper song of the Lark Sparrow and the soft call of the Poor-will.
When October days have come the roadsides are bordered with the scarlet zanschneria, the yellow threads of the dodder are in a wild tangle over sumach and sages, the cliffs are gorgeous with brightening lichens and sycamore trees are turning to brown and gold. The Meadowlark whistles from the mesa, the Vesper Sparrow is in the dry washes by the roadside, and flocks of Horned Larks are feeding in the fields. The Mountain Bluebird flashes across the way like a bit of fallen sky, and the Roadrunner passes swiftly from our sight, as we drive on our way.
Let us, now, take another glimpse at our bird paradise. The White and Golden-crowned Sparrows and Audubon's Warbler have taken posession. The Wren-tit still rings out its elation notes, the bluejay is as mischievous as before and the woodpecker is studying a piece of water-pipe left on the fence to see if it is a suitable place in which to store acorns. Life under the arbor is now something to be dreamed of. Tom, the Plain Titmouse, comes for the melon seed he has learned to love, and that are scattered regularly for him. When gathered around the hospitable board, and with mountain appetites we pass our plates for a second helping, and are told "Wait till Tom gets his seed." Plates are held, forks suspend- ed in the air while 'Tom' hops in between the chairs for his seed, then all breathe and eat again. We are up at five to catch the Lark Sparrow at his morning song. And we see that one by one, the ravens come from somewhere out from the face of the cliff across the canyon. What music in their harsh "caw, caw" to bird-crank ears, for it is a pronfise of days to come, when froin a point of vantage gained by hard climbing, we will sit and spy on the family affairs of at least two house- holds of ravens, one on a ledge of a cliff, the other in a tree hard by.
The hills about us echo with the call of the Valley Quail, for they have learned that only about here are they safe from the huntsman's gun. The robins and Western Bluebirds have come and are feeding on the California holly and mistletoe berries. A visit to the tank brings us face to face with other of our winter visitors. The Hermit Thrush is twitching wings and tail from every bush, and a flock of Townsend's Sparrows are chattering socially over not a cup of tea,--but a limpid pool of water. A number of WrenTits come to examine their visitor. One comes within two feet of my face, and finding me harmless, descends, twig by twig, to the pool below for a bath. It hops from a small overhanging bush above the water, daintily dips one toe in, and darts up in alarm. The second time it wet both feet before nervously flying up again. The third time it stepped in and gave a flutter with its wings, when back to shelter it went. It continued these vain attempts at a bath until the seventh, when it took a
