172 Northern Observations of Inland Birds 



man, even among the most lovable of our wild kindred, 

 is necessarily peculiar to their unsophisticated youth ! 



But it cannot be otherwise. Not long ago I fell foul 

 of a fishing competition, and I saw one of the competitors 

 strike at a dipper with his rod as it flew past him. I asked 

 him what good it would have done him if he had killed 

 the bird, and he replied that he would have ** had it 

 stuffed." But for a well-founded realization that in the 

 unity of labour Hes its strength, I might have tried the 

 experiment of consigning this gentleman, who evidently 

 preferred a mummy to a living thing, to the element 

 from which he and his companions were hoisting salmon 

 par and infant trout for the glory of winning the *' sporting 

 honours '' of the day ! 



Those who are familiar with the environment of the 

 dipper know the sandpiper equally well. Both of them 

 are generally beloved companions of the followers of 

 the Gentle Art. One must live for a while in a birdless 

 land in order to understand how much birds add to their 

 given surroundings. In such a land one is at first merely 

 subtly aware that something is missing — sadly missing. 

 Then after a while, comes the realization — " There are no 

 birds ! '' — and thereafter, even though one may not 

 consider oneself a bird lover, there is a sense of a very 

 real longing for their call-notes and the sight of their 

 bright forms. 



I have lived in birdless lands. I know what the snow 

 buntings are to the North, which has its bitter pinch 

 even though they are present in their thousands. Once 

 within my experience a great white owl settled on the 

 trail ahead of our dogs, and even its sinister presence was 

 welcome, since for weeks we had seen no birds, though 

 the Indians who accompanied us declared the appearance 

 of the great bird of prey to be a bad omen. 



For myself I know that the dippers, the sandpipers, 



