Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

plan whereby as one ceased, another took up his song. There were at least five on this circuit. At times from an indeterminable distance came the sorrowful call of the mourning dove. As one listens to him, the heart aches for him for it is such a hopelessly mournful dirge that he sings Almost as mournful was the cry another bird, with which I was unfamiliar. Literally it went “Tts-teerie” but it would not require much imagination to trans­form it to “Wear-ee”. Quite in contrast to these was the busy call of another unfamiliar bird who was continually saying “chip-durd” “chip-durd” * and kept repeating it because no one would believe it.

Jim’s whistle aroused me and on coming back to camp, I found he had brought a bucket of water. We drank joyfully and intemperately. While we were lolling about, I heard a sound coming from somewhere across the creek that sounded not unlike a goose. Crossing the creek I set out to determine what it was. Steadily and stealthily I approached the sound. It seemed to come from

*Scarlet Tanager