lf a dozen places in the valley, irrigated by the spring
rains, where I was always sure of finding birds. Among them, on the west
side, was the big sycamore, standing at the lower end of the valley;
while above, in the northwest corner, was the mouth of Twin Oaks canyon
where the migrants flocked in the brush around the large twin oak that
overlooked the little old schoolhouse. On the east side was the Ughland
canyon, at the mouth of which the little lover and his neighbors nested;
while below it straggled the line of sycamores that followed the Ughland
stream down through my ranch. But up at the head of the valley beyond
the ranch-house was the most delightful place of all. There I was always
sure of finding interesting nests to study.

Surrounded by a waste of chaparral, it was a little oasis of great
blooming live-oaks, and in their shade I used often to spend the hot
afternoon hours. In the spring the water that flowed down the hills at
the head of the valley formed a fresh mountain stream that ran down the
Oden canyon and so on through the centre of this grove, feeding the
oaks and spreading out to enrich the valley below. In summer, like the
rest of the canyon streams, only its dry sandy bed remained. Then, when
the meadows were oppressively hot, my leafy garden was a shady bower to
linger in. Its long drooping branches hung to the ground, dainty yellow
warblers flitted about the golden tassels of the blossoming trees, and
the air was full of the happy songs of mated birds.

[Illustration: A SHADY BOWER]

The trail from the ranch-house to the oaks was a line through the low
grass in which grew yellow fly flowers and orange poppies; and over them
every spring, day after day, processions of migrating butterflies
drifted slowly up the canyon. At the entrance of the garden was a
sentinel oak whose dark green foliage contrasted well with the yellow
flowers in the grass outside. It was the chosen hunting-ground of many
birds. Its dead upper branches offered the bee-birds and woodpeckers an
unobstructed view of passing insects, and gave the jays and flickers a
chance to overlook the brush, and take their bearings. The lower limbs
offered perches where doves might come to rest, finches to chatter, and
chewinks to sing; while its hanging boughs and elm-like feathered sides
attracted wandering warblers and songful wrens.

The happy days spent among these beautiful California oaks are now
far in the past, but as I sit in