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118 THE CONDOR' VoL. X tent, his tail spreads and flattens against the downward rush and the great talons hang loosely down. Then gliding swiftly over the topmost branch, the swinging and apparently useless feet suddenly stiffen, a faint crack is heard and he Slowly fans his way over to the nearby nest, firmly grasping in his talons a twig from the tree on which he seemingly so nearly escaped destruction. The nest itself is a huge platform of sticks often measuring four feet across and two feet in depth, sometimes deeply and other times only slightly cupped, lined with pieces of green leaves and green pine needles. Their location I always found was in a pine tree, the distance from the ground varying from fifteen to fifty or sixty feet. More often, however, they were between twenty and thirty feet up, in small pines. According to several good authorities the usual complement of eggs is two and three, but in 0nly one instance out of the twenty-seven nests examined was there more than one egg, and this exceptional nest contained two.. In some cases they are beautifully marked with lavender, umber and light brown, and in other cases they are totally unmarked; however the greater majority show distinct markings. The old birds are very bold when the nest contains young and often perch on a branch five or six feet from the'nest while one handles the young. Often, too, the male, circling high in the air with dangling legs, a marked peculiarity of this species, will suddenly make one of his awful plunges straight at the intruder, swerv- ing just in time to avoid the shock which would undoubtedly kill the bird and knock the intruder out of the tree. Like many other hawks, if the nest is robbed, they at once go to work on another nest, and I have taken three sets in one season from the same bird. Livermore, fowa. A MIGRATION WAVE OF VARIED THRUSHES By JOSEPH MAILLIARD CTOBER 20, 1906, is a date firmly fixed in my memory by two occur- rences. One was the commencement of one of the worst forest fires that we have ever been threatened with--started as usual by criminal foolish- hess--and the other the witnessing of the only actual wave of migration on the Pacific Coast that I have had the good fortune to observe. The latter, happily, came first in order on that memorable day, the second occurrence keeping me too busy for a week to think of anything beyond saving the Rancho San Geronimo, and possibly the old idea of future punishment, when the flames got the better of us at times. On the morning of this day I started out early on a quail hunt, with my son and my ranch superintendent, as had been previously arranged, partly on business and partly on pleasure bent. A very strong, and exceedingly warm and dry north wind was blowing, amounting in places to a veritable gale. We drove from the house to the extreme end of the ranch, a distance of about four miles, before sunrise, in the face of the gale, and putting up the team in the barn there, commenced on foot to ascend the range with the purpose in view of looking over the property and, incidentally, seek- ing for quail in their accustomed haunts. The sun was rising as we began the as- cent and the air startlingly clear. We had taken but a few steps when my atten-