Bird lore - Project Puffin

—
A tree trunk can thus be well stocked
for several feet up from the ground, and,
in a locality free from marauding cats,
prove to be a source of interest and
amusement for old and young alike,
besides furnishing a splendid place for
bird photography. Ethel A. Nott,
Rccdsburg, Wis.
Wheat-Wheat, a True Story
One day in the autumn when I went out
to look after my poultry, I discovered, to
my great delight, a flock of six or seven
Bob-whites quietly picking up grain with
the chickens. They were rather cautious,
and gathered only those kernels that had
been scattered the farthest away.
At intervals afterward we would hear
the pleasant bob-while, old bob-while, call
from the stone-fence thicket; then in the
midst of the clover blooms across the
road; again from the top rail in the
orchard. But by and by winter set in with
its snow and sleet and biting cold, and,
as we gathered in the evening around our
own cheerful fire, we often talked about
our little friends and wondered if they had
found a comfortable shelter.
One morning after a severe blizzard, a
neighbor and I were passing a hazel
thicket which grew by the side of a ditch,
when something attracted our attention.
Alas! Here, all huddled together, were the
little frozen bodies of our friends. Two,
however, showed signs of life, so we each
placed one inside of our cloaks and hurried
to the house, where, with warmth,
they soon revived. But one had his legs
frozen up to his body, and finally died.
The other, a female, became as tame as any
chicken, and lived in our kitchen, where
we had placed a small box of chaff for her
bed. When spring opened, we offered her
her liberty, but she always returned, and,
if the window was shut, would tap on the
pane and call to us in her pleasing little
voice, which resembled a whispered
wheat, wheal.
One day when she was outside, suddenly
there came a call from the gate-
post close by, bob-while, old bob-while.
Notes from Field and Study 317
Little Wheat-Wheat was frightened and
fluttered to the window, where she tapped
loudly for us to let her in. So long had
she mingled with only us humans as com-
panions she had forgotten her 'kith
and kin.'
But Mr. Bob-white was an ardent
wooer, and often we would hear close-by
the familiar call, bob-while, bob-while.
Gradually Wheat-Wheat became acquainted,
and finally made rambles away
with her new friend, but returned to us at
intervals, and always to her box at night.
One day, while driving Daisy home from
pasture, she carelessly stepped on a nest
in a bunch of coarse grass close to the edge
of the slough. It was Wheat-Wheat's
nest of thirteen eggs, and all were crushed
but four. We carefully arranged the nest
and replaced the four uninjured white eggs,
but Wheat-Wheat never went near it
again, and she disappeared about three
weeks later.
An old white turkey hen had stolen her
nest somewhere, so I decided to go and
search carefully all through the tangle of
woodbine and blackberries that clambered
over the old stone wall. I stopped to
gather some prairie roses that leaned
against the old wall, when my hand
touched something! Instantly the old
turkey and her nest faded into oblivion,
for there, right in the center of the bush,
concealed so carefully, was a nest full of
tiny white empty shells. The secret was
out. The brood had hatched and were
somewhere near us. Soon afterward we
found them, and Wheat-Wheat with
them, as proud as any bantam hen you
ever saw. The old stone fence enclosed one
side of the pasture, with a gateway of bars
in the center. Here Wheat- Wheat and
her children spent the rest of the summer,
and often passed back and forth through
the gap. Every day grain and bread
crumbs were scattered at the bars for
them. By autumn, they, ten in number,
were all full-fledged Bob-whites.
Just before winter set in they left us, and
Wheat- Wheat with them. It seemed like
parting with one of the family.
Lena Waite, Rochesler. Wis.
—
Mrs.