70 BIRD LIFE IN A WESTERN VALLEY 



have seen him leave a certain salmon-reach at a 

 bend beneath the woods, and fly straight along 

 the line marking the ancient bed of the river. 

 Often, beside this old river-bed, I have found him 

 sitting in lonely state on a projecting willow- 

 root, and looking intently at his image in the 

 placid mirror of the rain-filled hollow beneath 

 him. I would not assert with confidence that on 

 these silent, sunny mornings he was gratifying a 

 personal vanity, though I can hardly doubt that 

 birds, especially in spring, are conscious of their 

 charms ; but the pool contained not a single 

 fish of any description, and such an expert as the 

 kingfisher, knowing this, could not have been so 

 mistaken as to visit the spot for the ;>urpose of 

 obtaining food. Yet again, I have startled the 

 kingfisher from his day-dreams in a certain quiet 

 place near the margin of a tiny rill in the heart 

 of a wood where the summer shadows are cold 

 and dark. 



The rare sight of a kingfisher engaged with his 

 mate in teaching an eager, attentive little family 

 of three or four how to catch fish is something 

 never to be forgotten. Below the hole inhabited 

 by the kingfisher, the pool is calm and deep, with 

 a shelf of rock in midwater, and a leafless oak- 

 bough shadowing the surface just above the shelf. 

 The spot is perfectly chosen. No inquisitive 

 angler intrudes on the solitude ; no prowling 



