THE SUBMERGED TENTH 



surprised to find that I had secured, not a Duck, 

 but a Horned Grebe. This was my first successful 

 wing-shot from a boat, and no wonder I remem- 

 ber it. More often, under similar circumstances, it 

 has been the large fellow " Ting-tang," as the 

 gunners name it that I have observed. 



A mental picture such as the above inevitably 

 has Loons in it, as a natural part of the scene. 

 Though Grebes and Loons may not actually flock 

 together, they have enough in common to make it 

 proper to class them alike with " the submerged 

 tenth ;" and as my thought turns toward Loons, my 

 personal acquaintance with them for over twenty 

 years unfolds itself in picturesque panorama, in two 

 main lines of association. One has to do with 

 wooded lakes, and a great bird floating well out on 

 the glassy surface, or exhibiting its marvellous 

 powers of swimming and diving; the other brings 

 up pictures of the sea. In one of these it is late 

 autumn. I am lying flat on my face, peering over 

 a ridge of sand, on the Massachusetts shore just 

 below " Indian Hill/' and watching a great Loon 

 floating just off* the beach, not twenty yards away, 

 utterly unconscious of my presence. In another it 

 is early winter, and I am strolling along the bluffs 

 of Scituate. A number of Loons, with Ducks of 

 several sorts, are fishing out at the beginning of a 

 line of heavy breakers. A big comber is advanc- 

 ing. Surely it will overwhelm that Loon that 

 floats quietly there in its course, facing approaching 

 danger. Just as the wall of water reaches the bird, 



39 



