128 



The Canadian Field-Naturalist 



[Vol. XXXVI 



silent death that ever lurks to overtake the un- 

 watchful among the forest people. 



Our camp was in a paradise of birds. Birds 

 were everywhere; on the ridges, in the meadows, 

 up the brooks, and on the lake. 



One morning the glassy surface of our cove was 

 broken by long V-shaped ripples. The mother 

 Loon had brought her young close in to the shore; 

 and as we stepped from our tent a pretty sight 

 they were; the snowy breast of the mother gleam- 

 ing in the morning light, and the two black downy 

 young paddling contentedly along in her wake. 

 Out beyond watched the wary mate; and when 

 we appeared both old birds sent long peals of 

 weird laughter echoing across the waters, and 

 started for the open lake followed by the two 

 youngsters. 



Now we dash for the boat. Well we know that 

 the old birds can well laugh at any efforts of ours 

 on the water. But what will these downy babies 

 do? At our first sign of pursuit the male bird 

 immediately dives, to reappear several hundred 

 yards away. But the mother, though swimming 

 some distance ahead of her offspring, remains in 

 sight, and encourages their heroic efforts with 

 loud wavering calls. And strong and steady 

 pulling it takes to lessen our distance from the 

 plucky little swimmers. When, however, it is 

 shortened to a few yards, they separate, one fol- 

 lowing the mothers calls to the deeper water, the 

 other keeping on up the cove. The latter we 

 follow; and when our boat is almost upon him, 

 flash! he is under. Relaxing our steady pulling to 

 await his reappearance we are surprised to see his 

 tiny head appear an astonishing distance ahead. ■ 

 Not to be outdone in this manner, the next time 

 he disappears we pull steadily, and we are almost 

 within reach of the little fellow as he bobs to the 

 surface. Down again he goes; and away we pull, 

 watching eagerly for that little black head to 

 appear. Second after second passes without a 

 spot on the clear mirror ahead, behind, or on either 

 side of us. Have we carried our experiment too 

 far? Has that mite of wild life become a victim 

 to our curiosity? Away out in the lake the two 

 old birds and their one baby are watching. But 

 what is that dark speck scarcely visible among the 

 sparkling morning ripples that are just beginning 

 to ruffle the middle of the lake? Steadily it 

 approaches the trio out beyond. We can scarce 

 believe our senses! How little we reckoned on 

 that grfat wilderness instinct, ages old, that had 

 taught the tiny fugitive to double back under our 

 boat and make for the open water, and freedom! 

 Pleased rather than disapi)ointed, we turn toward 

 camp. 



Along the lake shore we had another oppor- 



tunity to observe the resourcefulness of Nature's 

 children, when hard pressed. A pair of Spotted 

 Sandpipers had nested near our camp, and their 

 soft ascending pr-r-r-eet as they circled along the 

 shore was one of the cheeriest evening voices. 

 We often saw them with their young and noted 

 how quickly, when disturbed, the little grey fellows 

 scuttled under the fringe of bushes that lined the 

 beach. One day coming suddenly upon one of 

 them, we cut him off from his usual retreat. Try 

 as he would he could not get by us. Suddenly he 

 made straight for the water, and, dashing boldly 

 in, swam boldly out into the lake with all the ease 

 and grace of a Duck. The lack of webbed feet 

 troubled him not at all. Stepping back we allowed 

 him to approach nearly to the shore when, sud- 

 denly stepping forward again, we made as if to 

 seize him. In a trice he was under the water and 

 swimming again for safety. Swimming? Nay, 

 rather flying under water, for now the legs were 

 stretched straight behind, and the unfeathered, 

 paddle-like wings were used as easily as if that 

 was to be their ultimate mission. And in his 

 remote ancestors so, no doubt, it was. 



In the dense growth behind our tent the birds 

 were innumerable. The shy Ovenbird's shrill call 

 came ringing down the long green aisles even at 

 midday; but at night we heard his true love song. 

 When darkness was falling upon the slopes, and 

 most of the evening voices had ceased, starting 

 from some high perch, he would rise higher and 

 higher in air, singing all the while, till, the song 

 suddenly ceasing, he dropped abruptly into the 

 darkening woods. 



All day long the sweet soliloquy of the Red- 

 eyed Vireo came floating down from the high 

 beeches. What an idle fellow he seems. But find 

 him if you can, up there in the maze of leaves; 

 and in the pauses of his song you will see his gray 

 form ever flitting from twig to twig, and those 

 keen eyes ever searching the under surfaces of the 

 leaves where innumerable insects lie concealed. 



For several days near the last of August the 

 slope rang with the music of a little Winter Wren. 

 His song was new to us; and it was only after a 

 long weary scramble over logs and through thickets 

 that we espied his diminutive brown figure sitting 

 atop an old brush heap, and pouring forth his 

 floods of delicious melody. 



What continuous delights were those long walks 

 through the woods to the village! The roadsides 

 abounded in Warblers — Yellow, Black-throated 

 Green, Black-and-white, Canadian, Myrtle, Mag- 

 nolia, and Chestnut-sided; with Maryland Yellow- 

 throats, and Redstarts. 



An insignificant but unusual song called our 

 attention to the top of those tall spruces. Some 



