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 

 1 8th 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. 



