ntlings, already well fledged. My notes say
that their mouths were yellow-lined, and that the fleshy growths at the
corners of their bills were yellow. Does the lining of the juvenile
green-tail's mouth change from red to yellow as he advances in age? My
notes certainly declare that the nestlings at Breckenridge had
carmine-lined mouths. For the present I cannot settle the question
either affirmatively or negatively.

Here I perpetrated a trick which I have ever since regretted. The
temptation to hold a baby green-tail in my hand and examine it closely
was so strong that, as carefully as I could, I drew one from its grassy
crib and held it in my palm, noting the green tinting already beginning
to show on its wings and back. Its tail was still too stubby to display
the ornamentation that gives the species its popular name. So much was
learned, but at the expense of the little family's peace of mind. As I
held the bantling in my hand, the frightened mamma uttered a series of
pitiful calls that were new to my ears, consisting of two notes in a
low, complaining tone; it was more of an entreaty than a protest.
Afterwards I heard the green-tails also give voice to a fine chirp
almost like that of a chipping sparrow.

The mother's call seemed to strike terror to the hearts of her infant
brood, for, as I attempted to put the baby back into its crib, all four
youngsters set up a loud to-do, and sprang, panic stricken, over the
rim, tumbling, fluttering, and falling through the network of twigs to
the ground, a couple of them rolling a few feet down the dusty bank.
Again and again I caught them and put them back into the nest, but they
would not remain there, so I was compelled to leave them scrambling
about among the bushes and rocks. I felt like a buccaneer, a veritable
Captain Kidd. My sincere hope is that none of the birdkins came to grief
on account of their premature flight from the nest. The next morning old
and young were chirping about the place as I passed, and I hurried away,
feeling sad that science and sentiment must sometimes come into
conflict.

One day in the latter part of June, as I was climbing the steep side of
a mesa in the neighborhood of Golden, my ear was greeted by a new style
of bird music, which came lilting sweetly down to me from the height. It
had a kind of wild, challenging ring about it, as if the singer were
daring me to venture upon his demesne at my peril. A hard climb brought
me at length wi