230 American Birds 



body dropped to the bushes twenty feet below. How the 

 bird could have held the rigid position of the neck through- 

 out its death struggle I could not understand, unless it 

 was a case where the force of instinct was strong even to 

 death. 



The last trip we made to the heronry we found the 

 limbs of the sycamores as well loaded with young herons 

 as a good apple tree is loaded with fruit. The moment 

 we started to climb the tree with our cameras was the sig- 

 nal for the breaking loose of a squawking bedlam. Young 

 squawks jabbered all sorts of epithets from the nest edge 

 and retreated along the limbs as we drew nearer. The 

 young blue herons savagely disputed every foot of the way. 

 They aimed a fusillade of stabs at us from all sides, and 

 we took great care not to get within reach of their 

 weapons. When we did get into the tree-top it took 

 some little time to oust a pair of enraged youngsters so 

 that we could sit in their nest and aim the camera at the 

 birds about. 



It was considerable trouble for us to get a series of 

 heron pictures. We suffered and scratched for weeks with 

 a miserable rash from the poison oak, but we made five 

 long trips to the heron village. The last trips through the 

 jungle were not as difficult as the first; we had the begin- 

 ning of a path and we took poison oak preventives: 

 gloved our hands and veiled our faces. But it was worth 

 it all just to get a clear idea of what life is in a big heronry. 

 It was a sight for the soul just to watch the great blue 

 herons; the long, slow wing-beats as they flapped in from 

 the feeding-grounds; then the picture of quiet restfulness 

 as they lounged about their nests after the day's work. 



