186 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



TWO YOUXG ROAD RUNNERS AT LUNCH 



When a young Road Runner eats a lizard, he has a meal lo or 12 inches long. He sits 

 like a man with a board up his back and eats by inches, the lizard disappearing at the rate of 

 about an inch every two minutes. 



I watched them coming and going, it 

 seemed to me at first as if each female 

 was satisfied to plant herself on the first 

 egg she foutid and, like any barnyard 

 fowl, did not care a fig whether she or 

 her neighbor had laid it. 



But I soon became aware that such was 

 not really the case. From my vantage 

 ground I could see every movement in 

 the ordinary run of life in the big colony 

 without in any way disturbing the birds. 



In order to discover whether or not it 

 was within a Murre's limited intelligence 

 to know her own egg, I experimented 

 several times by scaring the birds from 

 their nests and watching their return. Al- 

 most before I was hidden, the first Murre 

 pitched awkwardly in. She sat for a few 

 moments clucking and craning her neck, 

 then hobbled up the rock past two eggs, 

 bowing and looking about. She stumbled 

 on as clumsily as a boy in a sack race, 

 stopping and cocking her head from side 

 to side like a nearsighted old lady, until 

 she had passed eight or nine eggs. Finally 

 she poked one gently with her bill, looked 

 it over, and tucked it under her thip-h. 



By this time the ledge was full of Murres, 

 all cackling, pecking one another, and 

 shuffling about in search for the one and 

 only egg. 



EVERY CHICK TO ITS OWN PARENT 



Two )-ears later I tried a similar experi- 

 ment on the same colony when all the 

 eggs were hatched. It had been noisy 

 during the days of incubation, but it was 

 bedlam when the Murres had ^•oung. As 

 soon as the parents were scared from the 

 nest, the infants began to squeal, and kept 

 it up until the parents came back. When 

 the first mother bird returned she bowed 

 elaborately and uttered a series of calls 

 varying in tone from the deep bass of a 

 man's voice to the cackling of an old 

 hen. After standing there for a few 

 moments she straddled a few feet closer 

 and began once more to bow and call. 



Some of the young waddled down to 

 meet their parents, squealing like a litter 

 of pigs that had just been gunny-sacked. 

 One crawled hurriedly down to get under 

 an old Murre's wing, but she gave him a 

 jab that knocked him backward and sent 



