THE GREAT BLUE HERON. 469 
most acceptable perches provided by the long lines of piling which anchor 
the fish-nets in the shallow waters of Lake Erie. On a windy day it is inter- 
esting to see these long-legged creatures trying to make connection with 
their narrow perches as they alight. Facing the wind, some will fly well 
past until their dangling legs touch the top of the pile, and then allow the 
wind to right them; while others thrust the feet well forward and critically 
observe the moment of contact, after which they struggle into position with 
great flappings. In spite of this apparent awkwardness, they can maintain 
themselves on no larger a footing than a taut rope; and I have seen them 
stand on the edge of a fish-net, and, reaching down to the water some two 
feet below, select an under-weight Whitefish. 
During the breeding season these large birds are gregarious. They for- 
merly bred in immense numbers in suitable places, and these heronries were 
known locally as Crane towns or Crane heavens. Now they are much re- 
duced in numbers and I know of no place in the state where above a dozen 
pairs breed together. 
A visit to one of these heronries, such as the writer enjoyed on the 
18th of last June, is a unique experience. A scattered colony is to be found 
in a swampy tract of tall timber about ten miles east of Columbus. While 
still at least a half mile away from the woods in question, a peculiar roaring 
sound was heard, which I was assured by a farmer proceeded from the 
Herons as they fed their young. ‘The forest was practically primeval and 
the foliage very dense, while the mosquitoes rose in clouds at every step. 
These little insects were not simply a pest, they were a scourge, and if one 
paused but for a moment to adjust a camera or change a plate their on- 
slaughts became maddening. 
After wandering about aimlessly for a time, I heard a low croaking 
overhead, and this was answered most enthusiastically from a tree-top not 
far distant. Stepping out into the open, I saw a Great Blue Heron crossing 
overhead and putting on the brakes as she approached the nest. The wings 
were drawn in stiffly and the whole attitude was tense,—a tantilizing figure 
for an unprepared and mosquito-ridden photographer. The nest was placed 
about eighty feet high in a live oak, a very substantial structure of sticks, 
and at least as large as a bushel basket. It contained young nearly full 
grown, and these crawled about uneasily, now balancing on the edge and 
trying their wings, or squabbling viciously with their brothers. Now and 
then one took refuge on an outlying limb; but the coming of the parent was 
the signal for all to gather. Upon alighting the old bird first indulged a 
pensive moment, like a cow which is expecting another order of grass sent 
up from the proventriculum, after which she suddenly jabbed her bill down 
the neck of the nearest squawker and dispensed sweet nourishment from her 
secret store. 
