806 THE LOON, 
behavior upon land. Since the feet are placed so far back, it must stand nearly 
upright, penguin-fashion, and its walk is an awkward, shuffling perform- 
ance; or else, as is more likely to be the case, the bird flounders along on 
all fours. It is said not to be able to take wing from the ground at all. 
In rising from the water the bird humps over in an agony of effort, rising 
only by slow stages, first by threshing the surface of the water with wings 
and feet, then by combined running and flying, until the feet clear at last, 
and the aspirant attains a proper motion. Once started, the Loon’s flight 
is swift and powerful, the wings accomplishing by rapid vibration what they 
lack inexpanse. But the most helpless act of the Loon’s life is that of alighting. 
One early April day upon an interior lake, the author with a companion 
had the combined good-and-ill-fortune to be caught out in a skiff at the 
approach of a violent storm. There was a considerable flight of Loons in 
progress; but many of the birds being warned by the storm signs, began 
to settle from invisible heights toward the welcoming lake. This they did, 
not by inclining the wings, but by moving in small circles, with wing beat 
restrained to an apparent minimum; thus sinking slowly thru the operation 
of gravity. As they neared earth, the earlier arrivals circled overhead in 
stately squads, and exchanged greetings or inquiry with others already seated 
upon the water. A soft, mellow, mirthless laugh, hoogh, hoo hoo, would 
ring out over the lake and be answered from a distance, perhaps a mile away. 
When the mind of a new-comer was thoroly made up to the painful necessity, 
say at a hundred yards, he ceased beating the air, set the wings stiffly, and 
began to fall obliquely toward the water. No doubt he dreads the shock, 
but the very desperation of resolve is painted on every feature, till—crash! 
goes the luckless fowl and is momentarily lost to sight in the upheaval of 
waters. Some fall like spent meteors, until it would seem they must perish 
in the shock, or at least break bones; especially, since the bird invariably 
strikes the water with outspread wings. No casualties result, however, and 
a few, more expert, come at such a low angle as to distribute the force of 
impact in along furrow. Talk about “shooting the chutes”; it was no Yankee 
who invented that game. It was a Loon. 
Fast and faster came the descending birds, and less and less pains did 
they take with the manner of descending until, when the storm-cloud burst in 
good earnest with an all-obliterating crash of rain, the last Loon had been gath- 
ered to his fellows, and the birds raised an exultant chorus of wierd laughter. 
Because of its infirmity of gait, the Loon usually nests quite near the wa- 
ter’s edge, on some wood-bound lake or solitary mountain mere, so that it may 
glide into the water unobserved, at the approach of danger. And because the 
eggs are of sucha perfect mud-color themselves, there is little attempt made to 
conceal the nest. On the contrary, a position on some promontory, or project- 
ing log, is chosen, so that the bird may command with its watchful eye a wide 
