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at his friend's eccentric movements. Shifting martial ardor and precision; then with his quickly from point to point, he would peer parting: over in a very quizzical and comical manner, as much as to say, "How do you do that?" It was a pretty pantomime; only two actors, but they acted well. Though no music was added to my notes, I was grateful for the call; and when the silent birds took to the air and left me alone again, I could not but exclaim, "How beautiful are birds, and what is so blue as a bluebird!"

Thus far the bluebird sang in the key of D minor. I afterward heard him in several keys, as here represented:


Lit lit,

lit lit lit.

and with a flirt of his tail at each note, he left the grove. He flew high, scorning the earth, and did not return till evening. Then he did not sing: it was only

Lit lit lit, leu leu.

The effect was that of a call, but there was no answer. Soon he called again louder, with more rapid notes, giving another interval:

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In these examples, the bluebird uses the minor key altogether: we have him in four positions of it. The fact that he sings in the minor key may partly explain the tenderness characterizing his song; but undoubtedly. the plaintive quality of his tone is the more important factor. The written songs of the bluebird and the robin might lead one to conclude that their performance would produce much the same effect, but on hearing them the contrast is striking.

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Some two weeks passed before the morning songs proper began, my first record being made May 5. On that morning, before light, I was out, and within a few feet of a robin that struck up his song in a small pear-tree, not more than ten feet from the ground. On this occasion I settled one point; namely, that the robin frequently sings other notes than those heard. He has a habit of, as it were, closing his mouth between strains, and making muffled, indistinct tones - an imperfect echo or, better, a burlesque repetition. The effect is humorous; for he seems to be shyly ridiculing his performance as he goes along, for his own private enjoyment. This after effort, not intended for the public, is usually pitched at the top of his voice—so high that his voice often breaks, when the result is truly ludicrous. I am convinced that many times when we This he repeated two or three times with think the robin is resting between strains, he

Last season the robin was five days behind the bluebird. The first note I heard from him proved him a magician; the sound of his voice, filling the air with joy, spread a glow of instantaneous happiness over the morning landscape. Perched on the topmost twig of a tall maple, I had only time to lift my hat when he saluted me with,

is busying himself in the manner described. His song on this occasion ran,

Another Song at Daybreak.

May 6, at 4 P. M., there were signs of rain, and redbreast seemed to be unusually inspired. He sang with great spirit,

While at my work, May 8, I heard him introducing new "kinks" in his vocal twistings. He repeated them many times, almost to tiresomeness. They were:

There is no mistake about this being in the major key, and a bit of choice melody. Delivered, as it was, with a delightful animation, the effect was cheering to the last degree. Other voices joined, and immediately a grand chorus resulted, in which, much to my amusement, the frogs and toads, silent up to this time, took a lively part, not to be outdone by the whole choiring hosts of orioles, catbirds, pewees, sparrows, and other feathered rivals. The only fault with the performance was its brevity; in a few minutes all was silent as before. The robin sings more hours than almost any other bird. His songs are short and he repeats them many times, but he is by no means stereotyped in his forms; indeed, he is fair at extemporizing when the mood takes him. A commendable variety will be discovered in the annexed melodies.

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Whether he meant to sing in E major or minor, I did not decide.

May 23 I was awake before 2 o'clock A. M. and all was still; not even a frog peeped. At the first faint coming of light the rooster crowed; and in about half an hour I heard the first bird notes the robin's. At this hour the robin does not burst into full song, but begins with a subdued twitter, which rapidly opens and attunes his throat for the splendid moment when, yielding himself to the fresh gladness, he does his best. The present performance was in a little maple close by my window, where, undoubtedly, he had spent the night. His song


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21. Just at dark.



24. Signal for flight.

Chicky ich-y chicky eu, Chicky ick-y chicky eu. 25. Sept. 21, cold and rainy.



of triplets; the robins abound in them. They are generally separated by brief rests; but in some instances two or three triplets are given without rests, as in Nos. 17 and 20.

The robins sing throughout the summer, their incessant repetitions frequently becoming tiresome. They take the lead at the opening of the season, and hold it. Every morning they begin the concert, and are the principal performers; indeed, they seem to feel competent to make up the entire orchestra, if necessary. They are by no means our best singers, but were we deprived of them, we should miss their songs more than those of any other bird. They are the most social and domestic of all the migrating birds, belonging to the farm almost as much as do the hens and chickens. They come early and stay late; and after they are supposed to be gone for good, if you have a nice mountain ash, hanging thick with clusters of beautiful red berries,-the very gem of all outdoor ornaments at this season,- some very windy day a cloud of robins will swoop down upon it, when nothing will save it. In mitigation of his offense, I am willing to believe that the robin does not think himself a robber, but simply a high-handed taker of what he has earned by long service of song.

September 21, a cold, rainy day, when no other bird was to be seen, I heard a robin exclaim:

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He spoke with much decision and independence, as much as to say, "I am alone, but can take care of myself!" It is a point worth noticing that the farewell of the robin is very similar in style to his first salute in the spring.

The last I saw of the robins they were collecting, at early morning, in the small trees and bushes about a pond near the grove. Very brisk, both in voice and movement, their main

notes were:

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SEEK its aerie shore as one enchanted,
Where falls a mystic, dim-delicious glow
On dusky violets and wistful daisies,
And ghosts of roses loved long years ago,
While pallid lily bells, slow swinging, toll
Not sounds, but silences, into the soul.

And oh! its hawthorn blossoms mock the snow-drift,
But never melt and never wear away,

While fair below the gently waving branches
Gold shimmered mists and azure shadows play,
Close where a silver streamlet runs along
So softly, it has neither laugh nor song.

This region is my own, O my beloved!
So much my own I cannot show it thee;
But when in blessed mood my spirit sees it,
This phantom realm, the Realm of Reverie,
Believe me, all the raptured quiet there
Seems waiting for thy voice to thrill its air.

Louise Vickroy Boyd.





there is ordinari
ly but little work
done among the
cattle. There is
some line riding,
and a continual
lookout is kept
for the very weak
animals; but
most of the stock

are left to shift
for themselves,
undisturbed. Al-

an Indian reservation or a settled granger coun

try, for the weather is very severe, and the horses are so poor that their food must be carried along.

The bulk of the work is done during the summer, including the late spring and early fall, and consists mainly in a succession of round-ups, beginning, with us, in May and ending towards the last of October. But a good deal may be done by riding over one's range. Frequently, too, herding will be practiced on a large scale.

More important than herding is "trail" work; cattle, while driven from one range to another, or to a shipping point for beef, being said to be "on the trail." For years, the over-supply most every from the vast breeding ranches to the south, stock-grower's especially in Texas, has been driven northassociation for ward in large herds, either to the shipping bids branding towns along the great railroads, or else to the any calves before fattening ranges of the North-west; it having the spring round-up. If great bands of cattle been found, so far, that while the calf crop is wander off the range, parties may be fitted out larger in the South, beeves become much to go after them and bring them back; but this heavier in the North. Such cattle, for the is only done when absolutely necessary, as most part, went along tolerably well-marked when the drift of the cattle has been towards routes or trails, which became for the time


being of great importance, flourishing-and extremely lawless-towns growing up along them; but with the growth of the railroad system, and above all with the filling-up of the northern ranges, these trails have steadily become of less and less consequence, though many herds still travel them on their way to the already crowded ranges of western Dakota and Montana, or to the Canadian regions beyond. The trail work is something by itself. The herds may be on the trail several months, averaging fifteen miles or less a a day. The cowboys accompanying each have to undergo much hard toil, of a peculiarly same and wearisome kind, on account of the extreme slowness with which everything must be done, as trail cattle should never be hurried. The foreman of a trail outfit must be not only a veteran cowhand, but also a miracle of patience and resolution.

Round-up work is far less irksome, there being an immense amount of dash and excitement connected with it; and when once the cattle are on the range, the important work is done during the round-up. On cow ranches, or wherever there is breeding stock, the spring round-up is the great event of the season, as it is then that the bulk of the calves are branded. It usually lasts six weeks, or thereabouts; but its end by no means implies rest for the stockman. On the contrary, as soon as it is over, wagons are sent to work out-ofthe-way parts of the country that have been passed over, but where cattle are supposed to have drifted; and by the time these have come back the first beef round-up has begun, and thereafter beeves are steadily gathered and shipped, at least from among the larger herds, until cold weather sets in; and in the fall there is another round-up, to brand the late calves and see that the stock is got back on the range. As all of these round-ups are of one character, a description of the most important, taking place in the spring, will be enough.

In April we begin to get up the horses. Throughout the winter very few have been kept for use, as they are then poor and weak, and must be given grain and hay if they are to be worked. The men in the line camps need two or three apiece, and each man at the home ranch has a couple more; but the rest are left out to shift for themselves, which the tough, hardy little fellows are well able to do. Ponies can pick up a living where cattle die; though the scanty feed, which they may have to uncover by pawing off the snow, and the bitter weather often make them look very gaunt by spring-time. But the first warm rains bring up the green grass, and then all the live-stock gain flesh with wonderful rapidity. When the spring round-up begins the

horses should be as fat and sleek as possible. After running all winter free, even the most sober pony is apt to betray an inclination to buck; and, if possible, we like to ride every animal once or twice before we begin to do real work with him. Animals that have escaped for any length of time are almost as bad to handle as if they had never been broken. One of the two horses mentioned in a preceding article as having been gone eighteen months has, since his return, been suggestively dubbed "Dynamite Jimmy," on account of the incessant and eruptive energy with which he bucks. Many of our horses, by the way, are thus named from some feat or peculiarity. Wire Fence, when being broken, ran into one of the abominations after which he is now called; Hackamore once got away and remained out for three weeks with a hackamore, or breakinghalter, on him; Macaulay contracted the habit of regularly getting rid of the huge Scotchman to whom he was intrusted; Bulberry Johnny spent the hour or two after he was first mounted in a large patch of thorny bulberry bushes, his distracted rider unable to get him to do anything but move round sidewise in a circle; Fall Back would never get to the front; Water Skip always jumps mud-puddles; and there are a dozen others with names as purely descriptive.

The stock-growers of Montana, of the western part of Dakota, and even of portions of extreme northern Wyoming,- that is, of all the grazing lands lying in the basin of the Upper Missouri,- have united, and formed themselves into the great Montana Stock-growers' Association. Among the countless benefits they have derived from this course, not the least has been the way in which the various round-ups work in with and supplement one another. At the spring meeting of the association, the entire territory mentioned above, including perhaps a hundred thousand square miles, is mapped out into round-up districts, which generally are changed but slightly from year to year, and the times and places for the round-ups to begin refixed so that those of adjacent districts may be run with a view to the best interests of all. Thus the stockmen along the Yellowstone have one round-up; we along the Little Missouri have another; and the country lying between, through which the Big Beaver flows, is almost equally important to both. Accordingly, one spring, the Little Missouri round-up, beginning May 25 and working down-stream, was timed so as to reach the mouth of the Big Beaver about June 1, the Yellowstone round-up beginning at that date and place. Both then worked up the Beaver together to its head, when the Yellowstone men turned to the west

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