A-Birding on a Bronco. Florence Merriam Bailey
at least to Romulus. The ranchman had to urge him on for my benefit, and the owls acted as if they rather enjoyed the sport, though with them there was always the possibility that a reckless nestling might pop up its head from the ground at the wrong moment and come to grief. It would be interesting to know if the owls were really disturbed enough to move their nest another year.
When Canello and I faced home on our daily circuit of the valley, we often found the vineyard well peopled. In April, when it was being cultivated, there was a busy scene. All the blackbirds of the neighborhood—both Brewer's and redwings—assembled to pick up grubs from the soft earth. A squad of them followed close at the plowman's heels, others flew up before his horse, while those that lagged behind in their hunt were constantly flying ahead to catch up, and those that had eaten all they could sat around on the neighboring grape-vines. The ranchman's son told me that when he was plowing and the blackbirds were following him, two or three 'bee-birds,' as they call the Arkansas and Cassin's flycatchers, would take up positions on stakes overlooking the flock; and when one of the blackbirds got a worm, would fly down and chase after him till they got it away, regularly making their living from the blackbirds, as the eagles do from the fish hawks.
One day in riding by the vineyard, to my surprise and delight I saw one of the handsome yellow-headed blackbirds sitting with dignity on a grape-vine. Although his fellows often flock with redwings, this bird did not deign to follow the cultivator with the others, but flew off and away while I was watching, showing his striking white shoulder patches as he went. The distinguished birds were sometimes seen assembled farther down the valley; and I once had a rare pleasure in seeing a company of them perched high on the blooming mustard.
The son of the ranchman told me an interesting thing about the ordinary blackbirds. He said he had seen a flock of perhaps five hundred fly down toward a band of grazing sheep, and all but a few of the birds light on the backs of sheep. The animals did not seem to mind, and the birds flew from one to another and roosted and rode to their heart's content. They would drop to the ground, but if anything startled them, fly back to their sheep again. Sometimes he had seen a few of the blackbirds picking out wool for their nests by bracing themselves on the backs of the sheep, and pulling where the wool was loose. He had also seen the birds ride hogs, cattle, and horses; but he said the horses usually switched them off with their tails.
On our way home we passed a small pond made by the spring rains. Since it was the only body of water for miles around, it was especially refreshing to us, and was the rendezvous of all our feathered neighbors—how they must have wished it would last all through the hot summer months! As I rode through the long grass on the edge of the pond, dark water snakes often wriggled away from under Canello's feet; but he evidently knew they were harmless, for he paid no attention to them, though he was mortally afraid of rattlers. I did not like the feeling that any snake, however innocent, was under my feet, so would pull him up out of the grass onto a flat rock overlooking the pond.
In the fresh part of the morning, before the fog had entirely melted away, the round pool at our feet mirrored the blue sky and the small white clouds. If a breath of wind ruffled the water into lines, in a moment more it was sparkling. Along the margin of the water was a border of wild flowers, pink, purple, and gold; on one side stood a group of sycamores, their twisted trunks white in the morning sun and their branches full of singing birds; while away to the south a line of dark blue undulating hills was crowned by the peak from which we had looked off on the mountains of Mexico. The air was ringing with songs, the sycamores were noisy with the chatter of blackbirds and bee-birds, and the bushes were full of sparrows.
There was an elder on the edge of the pond, and the bathers flew to this and then flitted down to the water; and when they flew up afterwards, lighted there to whip the water out of their feathers and sun themselves before flying off. I never tired watching the little bathers on the beach. One morning a pipit came tipping and tilting along the sand, peeping in its wild, sad way. Another time a rosy-breasted linnet stepped to the edge of the pond and dipped down daintily where the water glistened in the sunshine, sending a delicate circle rippling off from its own shadow. Then the handsome white and golden-crowned sparrows came and bathed in adjoining pools. When one set of birds had flown off to dry their feathers, others took their places. A pair of blackbirds walked down the sand beach, but acted absurdly, as if they did not know what to do in water—it was a wonder any of the birds did in dry California! Two pieces of wood lay in the shallows, and the blackbirds flew to them and began to promenade. The female tilted her tail as if the sight of herself in the pond made her dizzy, but the male finally edged down gingerly and took a dip or two with his bill, after which both flew off.
On the mud flats on one side of the pond, bee-birds were busy flycatching, perching on sticks near the ground and making short sallies over the flat. Turtle doves flew swiftly past, and high over head hawks and buzzards circled and let themselves be borne by the wind.
Swallows came to the pond to get mud for their nests. A long line of them would light on the edge of the water, and then, as if afraid of wetting their feet, would hold themselves up by fluttering their long pointed wings. They would get a little mud, take a turn in the air, and come back for more, to make enough to pay them for their long journeys from their nests. Sometimes they would skim over the pond without touching the surface at all, or merely dip in lightly for a drink in passing; at others they would take a flying plunge with an audible splash. Now and then great flocks of them could be seen circling around high up against a background of clouds and blue sky.
One day I had a genuine excitement in seeing a snow-white egret perched on a bush by the water. I rode home full of the beautiful sight, but alas, my story was the signal for the ranchman's son to seize his gun and rush after the bird. Fortunately he did not find him, although he did shoot a green heron; but it was probably a short reprieve for the poor hunted creature.
Canello was so afraid of miring in the soft ground that it was hard to get him across some places that seemed quite innocent. He would test the suspicious ground as carefully as a woman, one foot at a time; and if he judged it dangerous, would take the bits, turn around and march off in the opposite direction. I tried to force him over at first, but had an experience one day that made me quite ready to take all suggestions in such matters. This time he was deceived himself. We were on our homeward beat, off in the brush beyond the vineyard. I was watching for chewinks. We came to what looked like an old road grown up with soft green grass, and it was so fresh and tender I let Canello graze along at will; while keeping my eyes on the brush for chewinks. Suddenly Canello pricked up his ears and raised his head with a look of terror. Rattlesnakes or miring—it was surely one or the other! When I felt myself sinking, I knew which. I gave the horse a cut with the quirt to make him spring off the boggy ground, and looked off over his side to see how far down he was likely to go, but found myself going down backwards so fast I had to cling to the pommel. I lashed Canello to urge him out, and he struggled desperately, but it was no use. We were sinking in deeper and deeper, and I had to get off to relieve him of my weight. By this time his long legs had sunk in up to his body. On touching the ground I had a horrible moment thinking it might not hold me; but it bore well. Seizing the bridle with one hand and swinging the quirt with the other, I shouted encouragement to Canello, and, straining and struggling, he finally wrenched himself out and stepped on terra firma—I never appreciated the force of that expression before! The poor horse was trembling and exhausted when I led him up to high ground to remount, and neither of us had any desire to explore boggy lands after that.
On our morning round, Canello and I attended strictly to business—he to grazing, I to observing; but on our afternoon rides I, at least, felt that we might pay a little more heed to the beauties of the valley and the joys of horsebacking. Sometimes we would be overtaken by the night fog. One moment the mustard would be all aglow with sunshine; at the next, a sullen bank of gray fog would have risen over the mountain, obscuring the sun which had warmed us and lighted the mustard; and in a few moments it would be so cold and damp that I would urge Canello into a lope to warm our blood as we hurried home.
II.