284 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



MY FAVORITE BIRD. 



By Dr. Chas. S. Moody. 



He is not a sportsman who, shouldering a rifle can tramp all day in 

 quest of game, and fail to see the many things that the Great All 

 Father has made and endowed with beauty. He is no worthy disciple 

 of Walton who, while whipping the stream, does not look beyond the 

 creel of fish to the myriad forms of fleecy clouds floating in the 

 empyrean blue, the foliage of the trees creating shadow shapes upon 

 the water, the dark green grass, forming a setting for the buttercups 

 that seem like yellow stars starting from some flowery heaven to 

 gladden the hearts of men, the merry song of birds and the chatter of 

 the squirrels, the drowsy hum of insect life, all that combines to make 

 for me at least, a fishing bout one of extremest pleasure, what though 

 it is devoid of fish. Many and oft are the times that I have sat upon 

 a flat rock in the mid-stream, solacing myself with a pipe, and watched 

 the drama of Nature being enacted before my eyes. 



The being whose heart is not attuned to harmony with the infinite is 

 fit for "treasons, strategems and spoils." Perhaps of all the things 

 that the Creator hath made, I love best the birds. Many happy days 

 have I spent, to the woeful neglect of my profession, making friends 

 with the winged children of the air. No bird is beneath my love. 

 Even that black and white marauder, the Magpie comes in for a share 

 of my affection. There is one little fellow, though, that, by his cheer- 

 ful manner in the face of seemingly natural disadvantages, has 

 interested me most. I refer to the Water Ousel, (Cinclus mexicanus) 

 though why mexicanus I have never been able to find out, for the bird 

 is more often found here. Dear little fellow! Through storm and 

 sleet, through wind and calm, he is always the same. It is all the 

 same if fortune smiles or adversity frowns. He sings his merry 

 roundelay in the face of the warring elements. His habitat is confined 

 to the rivers and streams of the Pacific coast, and to eastern bird- 

 lovers he is merely a picture in a book or at best, the stuffed specimen 

 in the museum. The western ornithologist may study him in his 

 native heath, and an interesting study it is. Perhaps you are resting 

 beneath the shade of some birch or spruce beside a stream when you 

 hear a trill of music, of few notes 'tis true, yet bearing upon its melody 

 the spirit of the dark fir forest around. The singer is a slate colored 

 bird sitting upon yonder stone and bobbing up and down in the most 

 erratic manner by bending his knees and all the while holding his body 

 in the most military manner, A shaft of sunlight shoots through the 

 dense foliage like an arrow of gold, and lights up the water, the rock, 



