242 American Birds 



the color of green. The sun had baked the pasture-land 

 into granite hardness. Every blade of grass was burned 

 dry and crisp, making the steep slopes almost too slippery 

 for foothold. The heat of the sun's rays had licked up 

 every drop of water in the long series of side canons 

 through which we had to pass. With our heavy cameras 

 on our backs we struggled slowly up the rugged slopes, 

 slipping and perspiring, our tongues patched with thirst. 

 At dark we ate our supper and gladly stretched ourselves 

 under a tree for the night, a mile down the canon from 

 the eagles. 



When the first gray light of the morning crept down 

 the western slope of Mission Ridge the king and his wide- 

 winged mate soared out over the shadow of the sleep- 

 ing world. The nestlings were almost full-grown. They 

 stirred about and kept a hungry lookout from the nest 

 edge and the great limb-perch of the parents. At the first 

 sight of food they lifted their wings in strange and savage 

 ecstasy. They were no longer fed, nor did they share the 

 headless body of the squirrel that was dropped in the aerie. 

 One rended it in bloody strips and swallowed it in gulps, 

 while the other held -sullenly aloof, awaiting the return 

 of the mate with its breakfast. 



I cannot imagine even a touch of humor In the life 

 of the eagle. A pair of blue jays nested near the eagles, 

 and I imagine they came sneaking around at times when 

 the parents were not at home, just to see what was 

 going on. One day I was sitting on the edge of the 

 nest with my feet dangling over, when one of the curious 

 jays came up from behind. He didn't notice me till 

 he alighted, squawking, close by. His squawking-valve 



