further his suit, she must have a heart of stone that would not
quickly capitulate to his amour.

The bobolink, that little minstrel of the marshes, teeters up and down
on a swaying cattail, and flirts most scandalously, as he calls to his
lady love: "What a pink, what a pink, little minx, little minx! You're
a dear, dear, dear."

But we cannot stay to spy upon such love scenes, and we strike out on
the trail for home, after listening with pleasure, as well as profit,
to these feathered musicians.




[Illustration]

Wild-cat Cañon


It was on February 22, Washington's Birthday, that Hal and I started
in the early morning from Berkeley, for a trip to Wild-cat Cañon. The
birds are singing their _Te Deum_ to the morning sun. The California
partridges run along the path ahead of us, their waving crests bobbing
up and down as they scurry out of sight under the bushes, seldom
taking wing, but depending on their sturdy little legs to take them
out of harm's way. A cotton-tail, disturbed in his hiding, darts away,
bounding from side to side like a rubber ball, as if expecting a shot
to overtake him before he can get safely to cover He need not fear, as
we have no more deadly weapon than a camera, though we should