would bristle up, raising the feathers on head and neck, his red eyes
glowing eagerly, his tail a little spread and standing up at a sharp
angle, prepared for instant fight or flight, whichever seemed desirable.

I was amused to hear the husky cry with which this bird expresses most
of his emotions,--about as nearly a "mew," to my ears, as the catbird
executes. Whether frolicking with a comrade among the bushes, reproving
a too inquisitive bird student, or warning the neighborhood against some
monster like a stray kitten, this one cry seemed to answer for all his
needs, and, excepting the song, was the only sound I heard him utter.

Familiar as the chewink might be about our quarters, his own home was
well hidden, on the rising ground leading up to the mesa,--

"An unkempt zone,
Where vines and weeds and scrub oaks intertwine,"

which no one bigger than a bird could penetrate. Whenever I appeared in
that neighborhood, I was watched and followed by anxious and disturbed
chewinks; but I never found a nest, though, judging from the conduct of
the residents, I was frequently "very warm" (as the children say).

About the time the purple aster began to unclose its fringed lids, and
the mariposa lily to unfold its delicate cups on the lower
mesa,--nearly the middle of July,--full-grown chewink babies, in brown
coats and streaked vests, made their appearance in the grove, and after
that the whole world might search the scrub oaks and not a bird would
say him nay.

"All is silent now
Save bell-note from some wandering cow,
Or rippling lark-song far away."

III.

AN UPROAR OF SONG.

The bird music of Colorado, though not so abundant as one could wish, is
singularly rich in quality, and remarkable for its volume. At the
threshold of the State the traveler is struck by this peculiarity. As
the train thunders by, the Western meadow-lark mounts a telegraph pole
and pours out such a peal of melody that it is distinctly heard above
the uproar of the iron wheels.

This bird is preeminently the bird of the mesa, or high table-land of
the region, and only to hear his rare song is well worth a journey to
that distant wonderland. Not of his music could Lucy Larcom say, as she
so happily does of our bird of the meadow,--

"Sounds the meadow-lark's refrain
Just as sad and clear."

Nor could his sonorous song be characterized by Clinton Scollard's
exquisite ver