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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



A SIX-FOOTER CAN VISIT THESE FALCONS ONLY IN A PRAYERFUL POSE 



"This hurts me more than you," the author may truthfully remark to the young ones visible 

 or} the ledge. At the cost of barked shins and bumps on the head he climbed up each week, gently 

 /lifted the youngsters into a box, and took them to the base of the cliff to be weighed and photo- 

 graphed for science (see illustration, opposite page) . 



sea level (see page 617). The two previous 

 years the eggs had been stolen by "party or 

 parties unknown," and the falcons, without 

 laying a second time, had frequented the 

 various cliffs in the neighborhood for the 

 rest of each summer and well into the fall. 

 This time, although the day was April 1, 

 we were not fooled. 



Our sudden appearance over the crest 

 of the ridge was greeted by a slight move- 

 ment on the ledge and a long and angry 

 scream. There, across the canyon, but not 

 SO yards away and almost level with us, 

 was the falcon, rising slowly from its eggs 

 and screaming an angry protest. Running 

 a few steps, she launched out from the edge 

 of the ledge and circled above us, screaming. 

 Once or twice she set sail, as if to return 

 to the nest, but changed her mind and re- 

 mained on the wing. 



AT LAST — THE REDDISH EGGS! 



At least four reddish-brown eggs lying 

 in a shallow depression in the sand and 

 small fragments of rock at one end of the 

 main ledge could be seen through the field 

 glasses. 



Their rich coloring reminded me of the 

 description once given by a small boy I had 

 lowered over a bluff to report on the con- 

 tents of another falcon's nest. 



"Four eggs," he called. 



"What color?" I asked. 



"Gee, I don't know!" Then, after a 

 moment's pause, "Just the color that makes 

 you want to reach out and grab them! " 



Even the protracted screaming and high 

 flying of the female had not brought back 

 the male, who was probably absent on some 

 distant hunt ; but when the cliff was revisited 

 in the afternoon he appeared quickly in 

 answer to her short alarm cry, and circled 

 and screamed overhead at a great rate. 



He was overburdened with a tremen- 

 dously full crop, however. This made him 

 look like a pouter pigeon, shortened his 

 breath, and forced him to rest on the dead 

 limb of an oak tree down the canyon. The 

 perch, we found, was one of two favorite 

 lookouts used by both birds. 



We were back at the cliff with rope and 

 camera less than a week later (April 7). 

 This time the old bird stuck to her nest like 

 a setting hen, while we scrambled around on 



