jBlotes from JfielD anH ^tutjj> 



Photographing a Loon 



When I arrived at Spencer Bay, 

 Moosehead Lake, last June, I was told 

 that there was a Loon's nest on a small 

 island three miles down the bay. The 

 birds, they said, were in the habit of nest- 

 ing there each summer. A few days later 

 I was rowing around this island to find 

 a landing-place, and was greatly surprised 

 to see the old Loon, which I imagined far 

 out on the lake, come scrambling out 

 from under a pile of logs and dive into 

 the water. This was my introduction to 

 a bird which afterward gave me no little 

 excitement when I attempted to take its 

 picture. 



My first chance to photograph the Loon 

 presented itself two weeks afterward, as 

 my guide and I were paddling down the 

 bay on our way to a neighboring pond. 

 The Loon's island lay directly in our 



course, and, remembering my previous 

 experience with the bird, I suggested that 

 we try to photograph him. When we were 

 within fifty yards of the island, I arranged 

 the camera for an exposure at fifteen feet. 

 The guide then paddled quietly up toward 

 the place where I had seen the Loon dive 

 into the water. Nearer and nearer we 

 approached, until it seemed as if the Loon 

 was not there, and that we were to be dis- 

 appointed. Suddenly, with a great com- 

 motion, the old bird came scrambling' 

 off the nest and dove into the lake, as 

 before splashing water right into the 

 canoe, and startling me to such an extent 

 that I hardly had enough presence of 

 mind left to press the bulb. 



Our calculations were upset completely 

 by the bird's sudden retreat at the last 

 minute. We had no idea that he would 

 allow us to approach as near as we did. 

 The camera was focused at fifteen feet, 



LOON LEAVING ITb NESl 



Note how the white neck-ring seems to cut the bird's head off; an apparently conspicuous 



mark, which, in effect, renders the bird less evident. Photographed bv John S. Perry 



(266) 



