crouching to the ground in silence,
fluttering his wings a little, but making no sound, either of begging,
or when fed. A blackbird came to investigate this youngster, so
different from his importunate offspring, upon which both doves flew.

There is a unique quality claimed for the dove: that with the exception
of the well-known coo in nesting time he is absolutely silent, and that
the noise which accompanies his flight is the result of a peculiar
formation of the wing that causes a whistle. Of this I had strong
doubts. I could not believe that a bird who has so much to say for
himself during wooing and nesting time could be utterly silent the rest
of the year; nor, indeed, do I believe that any living creature, so
highly organized as the feathered tribes, can be entirely without
expression.

I thought I would experiment a little, and one day, observing that a
young dove spent most of his time alone on a certain cedar-tree, where a
badly used-up nest showed that he had probably been hatched, or feeding
on the ground near it, I resolved to see if I could draw him out. I
passed him six times a day, going and coming from my meals, and I always
stopped to look at him--a scrutiny which he bore unmoved, in dove
fashion. So one morning, when I stood three feet from him, I began a
very low whistle to him. He was at once interested, and after about
three calls he answered me, very low, it is true, but still
unmistakably. Though he replied, however, it appeared to make him
uneasy, for while he had been in the habit of submitting to my staring
without being in any way disconcerted, he now began to fidget about. He
stood up, changed his place, flew to a higher branch, and in a few
moments to the next tree; all the time, however, answering my calls.

I was greatly interested in my new acquaintance, and the next day I
renewed my advances. As before, he answered, looking bright and eager,
as I had never seen one of his kind look, and after three or four
replies he became uneasy, as on the previous day, and in a moment he
flew. But I was surprised and startled by his starting straight for me.
I thought he would certainly alight on me, and such, I firmly believe,
was his inclination, but he apparently did not quite dare trust me, so
he passed over by a very few inches, and perched on the tree I was
under. Then--still replying to me--he flew to the ground not six feet
from me, and step by step, slowly moved away perhaps fifteen feet,