Water Fowl 53 



October I could hear geese and cranes many times a 

 day ; sometimes so near that they were killed by rifle- 

 shots ; again half a mile in air, coming down the aerial 

 toboggan slide of Southern California, their habit being 

 when they reach a point too low for safety to stop and, 

 with vociferous cries, whirl about, climbing the air as 

 described, and then, on reaching a high altitude, soar- 

 ing, not flying, away to the south along the mountains, 

 in this way covering four or five, possibly ten miles, 

 when another break occurs and they climb again. 



In this way the geese and cranes migrate to Southern 

 California. At this time the oranges are turning to 

 gold ; the land that was brown and grey is green ; the 

 Heteromeles flashes scarlet on the slopes of the canon 

 down which you pass, and the lowlands, where the wild 

 rose garlands some little runaway through the hills, 

 are rich in sweet odours. Then, from high in the air, 

 comes the honk, honk, honk of the wild goose, and you 

 are away to some little laguna you know well, far down 

 by the sea. 



There I found myself one morning before daylight 

 sitting in the barrel blind on the edge of the laguna, 

 with decoys all about, and the air filled with the gutter- 

 als of swamp birds and the cries of myriads of black- 

 birds. The high fog was going out to sea, and away to 

 the north was seen the long line of the Sierras, the tall 

 peaks, as San Antonio, standing out like sentinels, while 

 to the west rose a wall of green weed, its tall spikes re- 

 flected in the water in lines of vivid colour, bending here 



