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 of the 
hunter. Omer birds might well aspire to unite 
their fortunes with those of “ the submerged tenth,’ 
could they thereby secure that immunity ‘on fone 
that the power of diving would make their Jot. As 
a boy, when I at last captured a Dabchick for my 
cabinet, I felt like a veritable hero. It is Ian 
to me now how one day I stood on the store of : 
pond near Boston and tired a whole pocketful oe 
cartridges at an inoffensive Grebe a tew 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 few 
seconds, I could imagine, with a mocking smile, 
ready to try again. It seemed to find 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 
