INDIVIDUALITY IN BIRDS. 



Early in the bright, still September morn- 

 ing, as I lie hidden among the bushes which 

 fringe the shores of my lonely lake in the birch 

 wood, watching the mists moving over the sur- 

 face of the water and rising to obscure the trees 

 on the farther shore, I hear a sudden creaking 

 of wings in the air, and see shadows passing 

 swiftly across the water. Then there is a 

 splash, the lake breaks into ripples, frogs give 

 startled croaks, and the gray squirrels in the 

 oaks cease frolicking, and hide themselves in the 

 armpits of great limbs, waiting for fresh signs 

 of danger. A fleet has been launched upon the 

 lake, and, in proud array, it stands away across 

 the mist-hung ripples. Six trim little craft in 

 close order plough the deep. Why is it that I 

 have to lie very still, as I watch this energetic 

 squadron at its sunrise manoeuvres? Why can 

 I not stand upon the sand and wave my friendly 

 welcome to the beautiful wood ducks which 

 have come to my lake ? I should love to call 

 them to me, feed them, caress their exquisite 

 plumage, and marvel at the play of color in 



