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able— yet man, and man who knew 

 something of such huge monsters, mav 

 have had a hand in the work. If any 

 aboriginal Phidias cut this master-piece 

 irom the living rock, then, whence did 

 he come? What was his mission? 

 Whither did he go? Like the little 

 boy's question of: "Who is God, mama?" 

 These queries will probably go forever 

 unanswered. I remember seeing a 

 huge Turkey Buzzard settle down upon 

 this petrified leviathan's head one even- 

 ing and compose himself for sleep. 

 What a train of thoughts the arrival of 

 this somber- plumed bird brought up — 

 thoughts going back, back over the 

 years until they lose themselves in the 

 abysmal mists of the world's nativity. 

 Early next morning, as we were pre- 

 paring to leave camp, I heard the shrill 

 scream of a Sparrow Hawk as he 

 wheeled in dizzy circles about the upper 

 crags. That day we pushed on to Owl 

 Springs, a lonesome little water hole on 

 the very rim of Death Valley proper. 

 From here we could see the white borax 

 marsh which covers the bottom of this 

 sink, and thirty miles across this bot- 

 tom, the myriad hues of the rich Fun- 

 eral mountains stretched like some 

 multicolored ribbon along the horizon. 

 Few or no new birds were noticed here, 

 but on the next day when we reached 

 Saratoga Springs, "the Sargeant" (so 

 nicknamed on account of the suit of 

 Khaki which he wore) brought in a 

 brace of ducks as proudly as any Ken- 

 tucky boy ever did his first wild turkey. 

 They were Baldpates or American 

 Widgeon, but a further and more ex- 

 tended exploration of the pond adja- 

 cent to the springs resulted in the dis- 

 covery of a diversified avian popula- 

 tion. Shortly after the wagons pulled 

 into camp, I unpacked one of the shot- 

 guns and taking a few shells started 

 out to make a circuit of the lake. A 

 Mountain Song Sparrow hailed me 

 cheerily from his perch on a swaying 

 reed, and two or three noisy little Tuli 



Wrens rushed into cover as I crashed 

 through the flags in making a short cut 

 to the water. Several other small birds 

 scurried through the salt grass growing 

 back on the flat, but 1 did not shoot 

 any so do not know what they were. 



The belt of cat-tails and reeds which 

 surrounds this lake is rather wide, but 

 when I did at last come to the water's 

 edge, the pond was literally covered 

 with Mud Hens or Coots— if there were 

 a dozen there were five hundred, and 

 all squawking at once. Such a racket as 

 they made, swimming about in the open 

 water, and disappearing now and again 

 into the tules which bordered the pond. 

 At the north end of the lake a band of 

 seven ducks, either cinnamon or green- 

 winged Teal, were feeding slowly up 

 and down. A flock of Mallards, fifteen 

 or twenty strong, came down close to 

 the water, but, seeing me, used wings, 

 and feet and tail to get themselves out 

 of danger, going over the Funeral 

 mountains to the flats of the Amargosa 

 or to Furnace Creek. 



Of Hawks I saw two here, Coopers 

 and the Duck Hawk, both evidently on 

 the lookout for ducks. Later in the 

 day one Shoveller was shot on the pond, 

 and a Kingfisher was seen perched on a 

 dead snag at one end of the lake. The 

 common little black Phoebe, or Pewee, 

 so plentiful around our barns here in 

 Orange county, was there also, while— 

 though the time was late November — 

 several Meadow Larks were seen in the 

 grass back of the springs. 



Here, too, we saw a pair of Prairie 

 Falcons, one of the most rare and beau- 

 tiful hawks in California. Farther on, 

 along Willow Creek, I saw two nests of 

 these birds placed on ledges more than 

 a hundred feet up on precipitions cliffs. 



At this place we stayed only a few 

 days, going thence up the Amargosa 

 River to its junction with Willow 

 Creek, and then following the latter up 

 to the China Ranch, remaining there 

 ten days or more. While at this ranch, 



