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to gain the full use of his wings, and so could only run or flutter a few feet from the ground. I finally recaptured him and brought him back. He showed no fear and offered little resistance.

      About the middle of March the weather became very hot, and it was really cruel to keep the bird penned up in such close quarters in such weather, so I took him out to the plains and set him free. He could not use his wings much, and it is very doubtful if he escaped the shotgun or rifle of some predatory small boy, but it was the best I could do for him. He was a beautiful specimen of a bird, and I only wish I could have kept him.

Charles Elmer Jenney.

      THE HARLEQUIN DUCK

      (Histrionicus histrionicus.)

      The Harlequin Duck is the sole representative of the genus to which it belongs. The generic and the specific names (Histrionicus), which unfortunately the strict rules of scientific naming require in the case of this bird to be the same, are from the Latin word meaning harlequin. This word, meaning a buffoon, is especially appropriate, for the arrangement of the colors on its head, neck and back give the bird a peculiar appearance, especially during the mating season. At this time, too, the drollery of their actions is very noticeable.

      Harlequin is not the only name by which this bird is known. In the New England States and northward along the Atlantic coast it is frequently called the “Lord and Lady,” because of the white crescents and spots of its plumage and the proud bearing of the male. It is also called the Rock Duck, the Mountain Duck and the Squealer.

      Its range covers the northern portion of North America, Europe and Asia. “It is not common wherever found. In many parts of the Old World it is only a rare or occasional visitor; this is the case in Great Britain, France and Germany.” In the United States, during the winter, it passes southward into Illinois, Missouri and California. It breeds only in the northern part of its range.

      It is a mountain duck and “frequents swiftly running streams, where it delights to sport among the eddies below water falls or in the brawling rapids.” It is not only an adept in the art of swimming and diving, but it also flies swiftly and to a great height. During the winter it frequents northern sea coasts and exhibits the characteristics of other sea ducks, and is occasionally found far out at sea. It is known that the Harlequin will lead a solitary life, and it is sometimes observed in pairs or even alone on streams of remote and unfrequented localities.

      The sexes vary greatly. While the male, which is the sex of the bird of our illustration, is brightly colored, the female is much more somber. The young resemble the adult female.

      The food of the Harlequin consists almost entirely of the parts of aquatic plants and the smaller crustaceans and mollusks. The food is obtained by diving, frequently through several feet of water. Mr. Chapman tells us that the sea ducks in diving to obtain food, will “sometimes descend one hundred and fifty feet or more.”

      Its nest, though usually placed on the ground, is sometimes built in the hollow of a tree or a hollow stump, though always near a body of water. The nest is usually a simple structure made of the stems of water plants, twigs and grass thickly lined with the downy feathers from the breast of the duck. The eggs are occasionally laid on the grass, and no effort is made to build a nest. The female thoroughly covers the eggs when she leaves the nest.

      The number of eggs varies from six to eight, though ten have been recorded. They are of a “yellowish buff or greenish yellow” color.

      This duck is considered an excellent food and is much sought for by the natives of those regions which it frequents.

      AN ORCHARD BIRD-WAY

      “A rodless Walton of the brooks,

      A bloodless sportsman I;

      I hunt for the thoughts that throng the woods,

      The dreams that haunt the sky.”

– Samuel Walter Foss.

      An isolated orchard certainly comes very near being an inner sanctuary of bird life. For some reason or other, the gnarled old trees and matted June grass touch either the practical or artistic sense of bird nature very closely, and appeal strongly to many a bird heart, for therein do congregate all sorts and conditions of feathered life. Probably it is an exceptional feeding-ground, for the curled and misshapen leaves testify to the abundance of the hairy caterpillar and leaf-worm supply, which proves such delectable tidbit to the bird palate. When I see the birds feasting upon these unsavory looking morsels, I can but wonder at the unregenerate farmer who so loudly decries the bird as a fruit-destroyer, when a few hours’ observation will teach him that to one cherry stolen there are a hundred tree destroyers gobbled up, and a thousand weed seeds devoured. It is Wilson Flagg who so curtly says:

      “The fact, not yet understood in America, that the birds which are the most mischievous as consumers of fruit are the most useful as destroyers of insects, is well known by all the farmers of Europe; and while we destroy the birds to save the fruit, and sometimes cut down the fruit trees to starve the birds, the Europeans more wisely plant them for their sustenance and accommodation.”

      Our orchard is surrounded by a fence of weather-stained chestnut rails, whose punctured surface has been the scene of many a worm tragedy resulting in the survival of the fittest. We enter through a pair of lichen-covered bars, grey-tinted and sobered by age. How far less picturesque is our field and hedgerow when inclosed by that inhuman human invention, a barbed-wire fence, and trim swing gate. To be neat and up to date, is never to be picturesque, and seldom to be artistic. But our quiet entrance into the orchard has caused something of a disturbance among the inhabitants, if no great alarm. Fluttering hastily to a convenient tree top goes a dainty red-eyed vireo, who seems to me to have more of a grey than olive gleam to his shining back. As he alights upon the topmost bough —

      “A bird’s bright gleam on me he bent,

      A bird’s glance, fearless, yet discreet,”

      but to show that he is in no way seriously alarmed he flings down to us some sweet notes of liquid song. It is Wilson Flagg, I believe, that has dubbed him the Preacher, but to me he seems more correctly termed the Lover, for I can but interpret his accentuated notes into “Sweet Spirit, Sweet – Sweet – Spirit,” a continuous cry, as it were, of loving eulogy to the devoted little wife who is so carefully hidden in her pocket nest in a distant thorn tree. But all of this time we understand his clever machinations, as he carefully leads us in an opposite direction by his song allurements. He flits from tree to tree with a naive turn and flutter, keeping upon us all the time, an eye alert and keen, until he deems us at a safe distance enough to be left to our own clumsy device, when, with a quick turn, he wheels backward to the starting-point, and we hear a triumphant praise call to the beloved “Sweet Spirit.” Near a corner of the old orchard where there are great bunches of Elder and Sumach, we hear vehemently stitching, a busy little Maryland yellow throat, doing up his summer song work with an energetic “Stitch-a-wiggle, Stitch-a-wiggle, Stitch-a-wiggle, stitch ’em,” the “stitch ’em” brought out with such emphatic force that it seems the last satisfactory utterance of a work accomplished. His pert vivacity has been most delightfully illustrated by Ernest Seton-Thompson, in Frank Chapman’s “Bird Life,” and I am sure the snap-shot caught him on his last accentuated “stitch ’em.” Dr. Abbot tells us that these busy little people usually build their nests in the skunk cabbage plants, indicating that they must have an abnormal odor sense, but perhaps they allow their sense of safety to overcome their sense of smell. However, this pair of yellow-throats have built instead, among some thickly matted Elders, just above the ground.

      Another fact that favors our orchard in bird minds, is its close proximity to a thickly foliaged ravine which affords such delightful security to feathered people. It is also a charming background for our sunny orchard, filled in below, as it is, with tall, ghostly stalks of black cohosh gleaming white in the shadows.

      Near by, upon a bit of high ground, quivers a group of prim American aspens, the pale green of their bark gleaming against the dark shadows of a hemlock hedge. As we look at them, not a leaf is in motion, when all of a sudden one little leaf begins to gesticulate frantically, throwing itself about with violent wildness, then another leaf catches

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