trying to swim, dive or fly, the bird is 

 at a disadvantage. It appears to be a 

 bird just on the way toward an aquatic 

 life, but not yet settled enough to be safe 

 against its enemies. One can tell a Coot 

 from a duck as far as he can see it 

 rise from the water, for it does not arise 

 at once and directly, as would a duck, 

 but ascends at a low slant, its frantically 

 paddling feet still clawing the water and 

 making ripples after the bird has been 

 in flight for several rods. After flying 

 awhile it manages to get its feet tucked 

 back properly. Its flight is always low 

 over the surface of the water, and it 

 soon circles around and alights again 

 on the water. 



A few years ago a favorite method 

 of procuring Coots among well-to-do 

 pot-hunters was chasing them down in 

 steam or naphtha launches and shooting 

 into a flock. In many places this method 

 is now prohibited by law and the birds 

 are given more nearly a fair chance. 

 They need it badly enough for the drain- 

 ing of the marshes and clearing up of 

 the regions about the lakes are re- 

 stricting its haunts year by year. 

 When winter comes, tightening its grip 

 day by day, the open pools of the 

 lakes become more and more reduced 

 in size, and the Coots gradually leave 

 as silently and stealthily as they came. 

 They seem reluctant to depart and a few 



remain as long as there is an open pool 

 left. The last to leave are probably 

 those that have been injured by bad 

 shooting, or are weakened by starvation 

 or otherwise unable to undertake the 

 long journey southward. 



The one thing the Coot can do is to 

 run. They can get over slippery ice 

 with surprising swiftness, and if they 

 were to stay among the marshes with 

 their relatives, the rails, they would be 

 one of the most difficult of our birds to 

 bag. ^ 



With the return of spring the Coot 

 reappears from the south, but not in such 

 great numbers as they do not now flock 

 much but scatter widely to breed, and 

 the greater number pass by unobserved, 

 to the northward. A few, however, re- 

 main with us, and in some sheltered 

 nook where the tall grass of the marsh 

 comes down to the water's edge one can 

 see now and then a solitary black speck 

 swimming about, and hear at times, es- 

 pecially in the evening, a far-off lonely 

 call, somewhat like that of the rain- 

 crow. It is the Coot that here spends 

 its halcyon days. Here it builds its 

 nests among the sedges and reeds, some- 

 times on solid ground, but frequently 

 the nest is floating and held from drift- 

 ing by the anchoring stems of reeds, but 

 allowed to rise and fall with the waves, 

 and here the bird hatches its young. 

 H. Walton Clark. 



THE THRESHOLD OF SPRING 



Standing on the threshold of Spring 

 though clad in wintry garb, we need only 

 to look abroad to see how close we are to 

 "the awakening." If we are versed in 

 that lore which enabled Antony's Egyp- 

 tian soothsayer to declare — 



In Nature's infinite book of secrecy, 

 A little I can read, 



we shall, of course, have learned to de- 

 cipher the less obscure hieroglyphics on 

 her page. 



Shakespeare tells us in well-known 

 words how the "daffodils that come be- 

 fore the swallow dares * * * take the 



winds of March with beauty," — but here 

 in Longfellow's county, what sign§ ap- 

 pear of the mustering of the forces of 

 spring? They abound on every hand; 

 the whole army of Flora is standing at 

 attention, awaiting but the word of com- 

 mand to advance, and though March 

 winds yet blow, we will not complain 

 when they lay bare to the eye of the na- 

 ture-loving investigator the glories of 

 moss and lichen, those "mute slaves of 

 the earth," as Mr. Ruskin writes, "to 

 whom we owe perhaps thanks and ten- 

 derness the most profound of all we have 

 to render for the leaf ministries." 



13-J 



