A WINGED FISHEKMAK. 



Shall I ever forget a bright spring day 

 when I sat on the slope beneath a tier of 

 shade trees and watched the bobolinks cir- 

 cling and poising over the meadow below me, 

 lairling out their wild tumult of song on the 

 glad air ! It was, indeed, one of my most 

 memorable '^ bird days," and if my life were a 

 desert — which it is not, I assure you — I should 

 call that day an oasis, a fair, blooming Para- 

 dise. 



But, although my attention was bent for 

 the most part upon the bobolinks and meadow 

 larks, every once in a while I would see a 

 kingfisher dash up over the hill from the creek 

 in the valley, holding a fish in her long bill. 

 It was sure proof that she had a nest with 

 young somewhere in the neighborhood, and I 

 determined to investigate later in the day, when 

 the meadow birds would loosen their hold upon 

 me. It was nearly dark before I could get 

 away. Knowing of a deep gully cut in 

 the hillside by freshets, I turned aside from 



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