Chapter Nine: Rural Rides


"A-birding on a Broncho" is the title of a charming little book
published some years ago, and probably better known to readers
on the other side of the Atlantic than in England. I remember
reading it with pleasure and pride on account of the author's
name, Florence Merriam, seeing that, on my mother's side, I am
partly a Merriam myself (of the branch on the other side of
the Atlantic), and having been informed that all of that rare
name are of one family, I took it that we were related, though
perhaps very distantly. "A-birding on a Broncho" suggested an
equally alliterative title for this chapter--"Birding on a
Bike"; but I will leave it to others, for those who go
a-birding are now very many and are hard put to find fresh
titles to their books. For several reasons it will suit me
better to borrow from Cobbett and name this chapter "Rural
Rides."

Sore of us do not go out on bicycles to observe the ways of
birds. Indeed, some of our common species have grown almost
too familiar with the wheel: it has become a positive danger
to them. They not infrequently mistake its rate of speed and
injure themselves in attempting to fly across it. Recently I
had a thrush knock himself senseless against the spokes of my
forewheel, and cycling friends have told me of similar
experiences they have had, in some instances the heedless