BLACK VULTURE 



to throw light on the opening was done. I was watching the log, 

 my shaking fingers grasping the bulb. I had depended on her 

 walking to the opening, then flying from there. She came out 

 on wing, with a rush. My shutter was set too slow for flight. 

 There was only an indistinct wave across my plate. 



Then the Deacon entered the log, creeping its length, to carry 

 out the baby and the egg in his hat, which we previously had 

 lined with leaves. The odour was so unbearable we could work 

 close the log only by dipping our handkerchiefs in disinfectant, 

 then binding them over our mouths and nostrils. The Deacon 

 said there was not a trace of nest. The baby and the egg were in 

 a small hollow in the decayed, yellow elm fiber. 



The baby was cunning as possible, white and soft as a powder- 

 puff. He had a little, quaint, leathery, black old face. The 

 unhatched egg was beautiful, but too light weight to contain a 

 young bird ready to pip the shell. We at once named the baby 

 "Little Chicken," after Pharaoh's Chickens of old. The Deacon 

 placed him in the mouth of the log, exactly as he found him, 

 while I cut away vines to make a footing. Then we cut down 

 several trees and bushes to secure a good light on the mouth of the 

 log. A study was made of the location, two of Little Chicken 

 and the egg, finally one of the baby alone. 



Then the Deacon crept back into the log to replace the baby 

 and the egg, although we knew it would not hatch. The fol- 

 lowing morning the mother broke it and ate the contents. 



The birds were Black Vultures, the pioneers of their kind in 

 this part of the country. The female was a brilliant young bird, 

 with fresh face and feet. The male was much larger than his 

 mate, duller of colouring, with a wrinkled old face, while his feet 

 and legs were encrusted with a lime-coloured growth at which he 

 bit and worked. 



When we left the swamp we were so overheated that we 



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