IN THE ESTERO 



MIDSUMMER is out of comparison the 

 dullest part of the year with a Santa 

 Barbara bird-lover. Even the linnets and the 

 meadowlarks have fallen silent after nine or ten 

 months of music. But the story of a morning in 

 early August will show how agreeable an hour 

 one may now and then spend about a tract of 

 city-bounded mud-flats and tide-pools even in a 

 time of relative dearth, a time between times, as 

 we may call it. For an outdoor man who will 

 take what he can get, there is always something 

 provided. 



As I left the beach and descended the low rail- 

 way embankment to the Estero, some large wad- 

 ing-bird (for a wading-bird is recognizable as such 

 by the cut of its jib almost as readily when fly- 

 ing as when on its feet) was approaching at a 

 good height from the opposite direction. It de- 

 scribed a circle or two, reconnoitring, and then 

 dropped into the middle of a large open pool so 

 shallow that the black water barely covered its 

 toes. 



Once on its legs it straightened itself up, fol- 

 lowing the general habit of birds in such a case, 

 44 



