beak, alight on the trunk of a wild cherry tree. While running about over the bark, the bird dropped what proved to be an acorn, but immediately flew down and picked it from the long grass, and returned to the tree. A second time it dropped it, and then, after carrying it again to the tree, thrust it into a crevice in the bark with considerable force, and began to peck at it vigorously. This it did for a few seconds, when I jumped up quickly and, with wild gesticulations, frightened it away. It proved to be the acorn of the pin Oak (Quercus palustris), and as no fruiting tree of this species was nearer than the Island, in the river opposite, I concluded that the bird had carried it across the water from that point.
After photographing the acorn on the tree, I cut the section of bark oft, glued the acorn in its cavity, and the photograph shows the result.—E. B. Southwick, New York City.
A Cover Design
This interesting sketch was contributed by a prominent ornithologist as an appropriate cover design for this magazine at a time when it was proposed to call it “The Bird World.” The appearance of a book bearing this title renders it necessary for
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us to abandon its use, but we do not, for the same reason, feel justified in depriving the world of this remarkably artistic effort, and therefore present it for the edification of our readers, and we trust, to the delight of its author!
Collecting a Brown Thrasher’s Song
Rustler, my pet Brown Thrasher, was pouring out his loud, long, spring song. A phonograph, or rather a graphophone, had been left on a table by the cage. Everything seemed to favor the collection of a bird song. I placed the instrument so that the open funnel of the horn came within less than a foot of the Thrasher's swelling throat, and touching a lever, set the wax cylinder revolving below a sapphire-tipped style, which cut the bird notes into the wax. Just as the medley changed from that of a Catbird to that of a Wood Thrush, a Robin flew past the window. Rustler stopped short, but the style continued to cut and ruin the wax cylinder. When Rustler started in again he hopped to the opposite side of the cage, rudely turning his back upon the graphophone.
More than a little vexed at the perversity of dumb animals, I quickly covered over the end of the cage farthest from the graphophone; then Rustler sulked beneath the cloth in silence. Next I removed the perch from that side and then Rustler absolutely refused to sing any more. Some hours later, however, I made another attempt, but each time the graphophone was started the whir of the revolving cylinder cut short my Thrasher′s rich, rippling notes, so that the only thing to do was to remove the recording style and accustom him to the noise of the cylinder, and when this had been accomplished, I replaced the recording style. I found that by shutting off the graphophone the instant Rustler's notes became weak or stopped, I could catch a continuous series of notes. I succeeded the following morning in getting a pretty fair song. It was not so loud as it might have been, but in pitch and timbre it was perfect.
In September dear old Rustler died. For nine long years he had enlivened my northern New Jersey home with his cheery music. In November, at a meeting of the American Ornithologists' Union, the notes of Rustler′s love song fell sweetly upon sympathetic ears.—Sylvester D. Judd, Ph. D., Washington, D. C.
