12 WATER-BIRDS IN THEIR HOMES. 



compares with the hoarse haw-haw-haw, haw-haw-haw, of a 

 flock of loons flying in a strong breeze. 



I well recollect a trip we once made down Caucomgomoc 

 Lake in the northern Maine wilderness. The morning broke 

 squally and threatening more wind, but as we had been de- 

 tained by heavy rains, and as the wind was aft, we hoped 

 by starting early to make the run before the sea rose dan- 

 gerously. In that we did not succeed. The clouds flocked 

 thicker, the waves ran white as sheep, and before we were 

 halfway over they were washing level with the gunwales of 

 the canoe, and slopping in-board, to remind us that there 

 would be worse ahead. The land-line began to waver in the 

 rising steam until we could not tell whether it was near 

 or far away. The sun, " drawing water," sent down a great 

 fan of purple bars edged with coppery reflections that made 

 both sky and water black. 



It was a wild-looking lake and sky, and for us every 

 moment was worse than the last. We were not only driving 

 into a heavier sea, but in making the outlet we must cross a half 

 mile or more of shoal ground, where on our trip up the lake we 

 had seen many sharp rocks sticking above the water and more 

 just beneath the surface. The waves were now running so high 

 that as the canoe rode over them she split them, and they stood 

 in hills of water above either rail. The canoe grew hard to 

 handle in such a flawy wind and broken sea, and we could get 

 no clew to the dangers hidden where we knew we must run. 



Meanwhile, three loons had mounted and were racing on the 

 wing. A fiendish glee seemed to fill them. Under the black 

 sky they looked as black as ink. Round and round they 

 coursed, necks and legs extended, their pointed wings beating 

 a double quick, as they cackled their malevolent laughter, and 

 called for more speed and a better breeze. It was a witches' 



