Ill 



THE GREAT DIVER 



ONE bright day early in June the great diver, with a 

 kick and a sprawl, rolled out of his eggshell prison 

 and rested for a time, and when his mother finally left 

 the nest, opened his eyes, blinked painfully at the light, 

 and as he gradually became accustomed to it began to no- 

 tice his surroundings. He found himself lying in a nest- 

 like depression on a heap of decaying moss and rushes in 

 the shallow water, fifteen or twenty feet from the shore 

 of a beautiful lake in Northern Maine. Of course he was 

 not aware of this latter fact. 



Tall green rushes, interspersed with the broken, brown, 

 and blackened growth of the previous year, stood like a for- 

 est on all sides, but his nest heap was sufficiently elevated 

 to allow him to look out over the expanse of the lake. He 

 was more fortunately situated than many of his fellows 

 who first see the light of day on the shores of our northern 

 lakes, in that his parents had elected to build their home 

 in the water. They had piled up two or three bushels of 

 rushes, moss, and other vegetable matter and anchored them 

 to the rushes in such a way that should the water rise the 

 nest would float but could not leave its moorings, but 

 should the water recede would rest on the muddy bottom 



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