18 On the trail of vanishing birds 



importance of my catch, I completed the season's work in Florida 

 and moved nearly 2,000 miles to a new base camp on the coast 

 of Texas. And there, in another region inhabited by spoonbills, I 

 found the same tiny fish. 



Meanwhile, I had learned that it is an exceedingly common, 

 hardy, and widely distributed species, the potbellied minnow, 

 Cyprinodon variegatus. I went back to Florida Bay definitely 

 aware of Cyprinodon. Rechecking data on the actual stomach 

 contents of spoonbills (there were only five such stomach con- 

 tents on record! ) , I saw that one bird had consumed no less than 

 246 Cyprinodon and other killifishes, in addition to 152 small 

 shrimp. This fish must be incredibly abundant. During my pre- 

 liminary studies of the previous winter I had missed its signifi- 

 cance completely. 



Once again I was deep in the mud and mangrove. The hot sun 

 scorched my neck as I leaned over the gunwale of the skiff, peer- 

 ing into the shallow waters for some sign of Cyprinodon. I saw 

 nothing. The muddy bottom was apparently lifeless, the water 

 seemingly dead. In a far corner, half hidden by the secretive man- 

 groves, was an area marked by the tracks of a good-sized wading 

 bird whose toes were partially webbed. And floating idly on the 

 surface film was a small pink feather, delicate and symbolic. An 

 even closer search disclosed semicircular lines in the mud, lines 

 an inch apart and in pairs, lines that curved through 180 degrees 

 in a strange crisscross of patterns. Spoonbills had been here, ply- 

 ing their partly opened mandibles back and forth in the sweep- 

 ing motion that typifies their manner of feeding. 



But still no sign of life. No swarms of fish, no expected multi- 

 tudes of Cyprinodon. Nevertheless I took my short seine and, 

 stepping cautiously into the water, I made a quick, darting sweep. 

 Pulling the net aboard, I saw that for me the mystery of Cyprin- 

 odon was forever dispelled. There, in the belly of the net, lay a 

 wriggling, quivering mass of the fish. Out of the mud, where they 

 lay protected from enemies and from the direct heat of the sub- 

 tropical sun, I hauled them by the score. 



Perhaps I have given the impression that the mangrove is fear- 

 some. It is, in a way, but it is also one of the most interesting, most 



