THE BLACK VULTURE 



"I must," said the Deacon. "No one less careful of you than 

 I am ever shall take you to the Limberlost." 



So for weeks, until October, in fact, we watched over that 

 baby and courted his parents. We found a dead calf in our 

 own woods, and, putting it into a sack, we carried it into the 

 swamp and placed it conveniently for the old ones and for me to 

 take pictures of them. When Little Chicken was a few weeks 

 old, without our knowledge lumbermen removed the log for a 

 watering-trough, but sent me word where they had placed the 

 baby. His parents were very indifferent about feeding him and 

 I had to see to him daily. Once when I was called from town for 

 several days he was brought to the cabin, in the back of the car- 

 riage, and a woman hired to feed him until my return, when he 

 was taken back to the swamp. There is no way of adequately de- 

 scribing what we went through for that series of pictures. 



The birds were friendly, the male especially, and responded 

 beautifully to our advances. From Little Chicken just before 

 he stood to walk, I secured the study here given, which covers 

 every possible natural history point, even the tongue. The baby 

 was a perfect dear to pose and in two weeks answered to his name 

 and took food from my hand as readily as from his mother. When 

 he was almost full-grown and only a trace of down showed about 

 his ears, he would follow me across the swamp with his queer rock- 

 ing walk, humping his shoulders and ducking his head; looking 

 so uncanny in that dark weird place I had to set my muscles hard 

 to keep from giving a scream and running as if for life. 



The last time I saw him was late in October. He followed 

 me to the edge of the Limberlost, and I turned and made this 

 picture, used as a tailpiece, when his wings were raised for a 

 sweep that carried him up to his parents. That season the Lim- 



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