THE WHITE-WINGED FLEET 



I have paid them half a dozen visits, and every 

 time have seen something new. 



I will describe a visit to them made this past 

 season : It was the last day of May, a splendid 

 morning, calm and bright. Two of us there were, 

 and we had come two thousand miles to see the 

 birds, making our headquarters in a small shack 

 with a hunter who was to drive us to various inter- 

 esting places. The islands were about eight miles 

 from here, and at seven in the morning we started 

 out in a rather novel fashion, a pair of broncos 

 hitched to a buckboard, upon which was loaded a 

 substantial keel row-boat, in which we sat with our 

 cameras and various equipments. Thus we voyaged 

 over the prairie in our boat that was propelled by 

 horse-power. A pack of hunting-dogs followed us, 

 and amused us by catching gophers and chasing 

 jack-rabbits. In the latter case, the quest was never 

 successful. Not even the greyhound seemed able 

 to catch such a marvellous runner as "Jack," so 

 long of limb and nimble. On these drives we now 

 and then saw a badger by its hole, or a gaunt gray 

 coyote, or prairie wolf, loping over the prairie, 

 stopping now and then to look back at us. 



So we drove along, exhilarated by the wild sce- 

 nery of the prairie, and the crisp, stimulating air. 

 Reaching the lake, we unloaded our boat on the 

 beach, and, after tethering out the horses, pushed 

 off, heading for one of the four low islands that 

 lay over a mile out in the lake. As it became 

 plainer to our vision, the first signs of bird -life 

 were dots all over the rocks, that I knew to be 

 mainly Ring-billed Gulls, and rows of black objects 



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