THE BELTED KINGFISHER. 



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WHEN we were small boys and had successfully teased our fathers 

 or big brothers to let us go fishing with them, we were repeatedly admon- 

 ished not to "holler" for fear of scaring the fish. This gratuitous and 

 frequently emphatic advice would have been discredited if the example of 

 the Kingfisher had been followed. Either because noise doesn't matter to 

 fish, or because he is moved by the same generous impulse which prompts 

 the cougar to give fair and frightful warning of his presence at the be- 

 ginning of an intended foray, the bird makes a dreadful racket as he moves 



Taken near Portland. 



Photo by A. IV. Anthony. 



THE KING ROW. 



up stream and settles upon his favorite perch, a bare branch overlooking 

 a quiet pool. Here, altho he waits long and patiently, he not infrequently 

 varies the monotony of incessant scrutiny by breaking out with his weird 

 rattle — like a watchman's call, some have said ; but there is nothing metallic 

 about it, only wooden. Again, when game is sighted, he rattles with ex- 

 citement before he makes a plunge; and when he bursts out of the water 

 with a wriggling minnow in his beak, he clatters in high glee. If, as rarely 

 happens, the bird misses the stroke, the sputtering notes which follow speak 

 plainly of disgust, and we are glad for the moment that Kingfisher talk is 

 not exactly translatable. 



It is not quite clear whether the bird usually seizes or spears its prey, 

 altho it is certain that it sometimes does the latter. The story is told of 



