of the Loon's diet. On the other hand some, as the suckers, are very destructive 

 to the finest game-species, eating large quantities of their eggs, while themselves 

 of little value as food or game. Weed and Dearborn say that "the fish they 

 consume are generally worthless." As a matter of fact very little has been made 

 known of the economic status of the Loon, but this little is considerably in its 

 favor. 



Audubon says of its diet: "Fishes of numerous kinds, aquatic insects, water 

 lizards [salamanders], frogs and leeches have been found by me in its stomach, 

 in which there is also generally much coarse gravel, and sometimes the roots of 

 fresh-water plants." 



Its diet is thus shown not only to be more varied than most persons acknowl- 

 edge, but also in this respect it is without doubt beneficial. Aquatic insects large 

 enough to attract the attention of the Loon are predacious, and in some instances 

 have proved to be factors of sufficient importance to demand active measures for 

 their suppression in fish ponds. 



Birds in the Lost River Valley 



By Edward C. Clark 



It matters little whether the wind be roaring or bleating, there comes into 

 the heart of the bird-lover March first a pulsing desire to see the first robin of 

 the springtime. Almanacs and calendars forgotten, the true bird enthusiast can 

 tell the first day of the first spring month by a certain quickened sense of yearn- 

 ing for the feathered friends of a bygone year. Unhappily, however, the first 

 day of spring does not always bring the first songster, and after a suburban trip 

 afield on that day had developed no birds save some storm-blown gulls, I made 

 up my mind to go South and meet the migration midway. 



My pilgrimage took me to the valley of the Lost River in southern Indiana. 

 The grass had not yet taken on even a tinge of green, but all the hillsides were 

 glowing with the red bloom of the maple. Some botanist will have to tell why 

 the grass was a laggard while the towering trees were aflush. The native spar- 

 rows, the slate-colored snowbirds, and the other gleaners of the ground in this 

 part of Hoosierdom, must look upward for their spring signs, and forget the 

 withered grass blades of a year that is gone. 



Southern Indiana, the land of the redbird, and alack, of the red mud ! To 

 hear the matchless whistling solo of the one, the bird-lover must take rather 

 more than a surfeit of the other. Mud, mud, red March mud everywhere; but 

 above it all a flood of melody from a thousand throats. I doubt if there be many 

 places on earth better adapted to bird life and better loved by the birds than this 

 southern Indiana country. 



With a companion who was willing to become an enthusiast, I left the hotel 

 on the morning following my arrival, just as the sun was touching the top of a 



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