FEATHERED PIONEERS 63 



spreads its wings, then closes them quickly, and 

 sinks out of sight in the green depths, not to reap- 

 pear until the steamer has passed, when he looks 

 after us and utters his mocking laugh. Here he 

 will float until the time comes for him to go north. 

 We love the brave fellow, remembering him in his 

 home among the lakes of Canada ; but we tremble 

 for him when we think of the terrible storm waves 

 which he must outride, and the sneering sharks 

 which must sometimes spy him. What a story he 

 could tell of his life among the phalaropes and 

 jelly-fishes ! 



Meadow larks are in flocks in March, and as 

 their yellow breasts, with the central crescent of 

 black, rise from the snow-bent grass, their long, 

 clear, vocal "arrow" comes to us, piercing the air 

 like a veritable icicle of sound. When on the 

 ground they are walkers like the crow. 



As the kingfisher and loon appear to know long 

 ahead when the first bit of clear water will appear, 

 so the first insect on the wing seems to be antici- 

 pated by a feathered flycatcher. Early some 

 morning, when the wondrous Northern Lights are 

 still playing across the heavens, a small voice 

 may make all the surroundings seem incongruous. 

 Frosty air, rimmed tree-trunks, naked branches, 

 aurora all seem as unreal as stage properties, 

 when phoe-be! comes to our ears. Yes, there is 

 the little dark-feathered, tail-wagging fellow, 

 hungry no doubt, but sure that when the sun 



