A Paradise of Birds 



frozen to death like settlers caught in blizzards. 

 None of our neighbors perished in storms, 

 though many had feet, ears, and fingers frost- 

 nipped or solidly frozen. 



As soon as the lake ice melted, we heard the 

 lonely cry of the loon, one of the wildest and 

 most striking of all the wilderness sounds, a 

 strange, sad, mournful, unearthly cry, half 

 laughing, half wailing. Nevertheless the great 

 northern diver, as our species is called, is a 

 brave, hardy, beautiful bird, able to fly under 

 water about as well as above it, and to spear 

 and capture the swiftest fishes for food. Those 

 that haunted our lake were so wary none was 

 shot for years, though every boy hunter in the 

 neighborhood was ambitious to get one to 

 prove his skill. On one of our bitter cold New 

 Year holidays I was surprised to see a loon in 

 the small open part of the lake at the mouth 

 of the inlet that was kept from freezing by the 

 warm spring water. I knew that it could not 

 fly out of so small a place, for these heavy birds 

 have to beat the water for half a mile or so 

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