Among the Water-Fowl 



the touch of the frost. There near the shore the 

 curious creature glides about among the lily-pads, 

 dabbling in the water, and gathering food as it 

 goes. Then it pauses, and rests quietly on the 

 glassy surface, glancing around to see if all is well. 

 Suddenly, with a quick plunge, it is out of sight, 

 and after about a minute rises not far away. Then 

 it will lie over on its side and preen its feathers, the 

 light glancing resplendent from its white, silky 

 under parts. 



The Dabchick, as are other Grebes, is a 

 masterly diver, skilled in eluding the shots ot the 

 hunter. Other birds might well aspire to unite 

 their fortunes with those of " the submerged tenth," 

 could they thereby secure that immunity from harm 

 that the power of diving would make their lot. As 

 a boy, when I at last captured a Dabchick for my 

 cabinet, I felt like a veritable hero. It is laughable 

 to me now how one day I stood on the shore ot a 

 pond near Boston and hred a whole pocketful ot 

 cartridges at an inoffensive Grebe a few yards away, 

 without — I am now glad to say — harming it in the 

 least. It would rest quietly on the water, all alert, 

 never turning, even for an instant, its bright eyes 

 from me. The moment I pulled the trigger it 

 would plunge quick as thought, reappearing in a tew 

 seconds, I could imagine, with a mocking smile, 

 ready to try again. It seemed to iind more sport 

 in the affair than the excited hunter. Nowadays 

 I am plotting, not to destroy the innocent things, 

 but to trick them to pose before the camera. 



I thoroughly enjoy cruising about in a sail-boat 

 on a bright day with a good breeze in late fall on 



36 



