Blue and Bluish 
Range—North America, except where the Texan kingfisher 
replaces it in a limited area in the Southwest. Common from 
Labrador to Florida, east and west. Winters chiefly from 
Virginia southward to South America. 
Migrations—March. December. Common summer resident. 
Usually a winter resident also. 
If the kingfisher is not so neighborly as we could wish, or as 
he used tobe, it is not because he has grown less friendly, but 
because the streams near our homes are fished out. Fish he 
must and will have, and to get them nowadays it is too often 
necessary to follow the stream back through secluded woods to 
the quiet waters of its source: a clear, cool pond or lake whose 
scaly inmates have not yet learned wisdom at the point of the 
sportsman’s fly. 
In such quiet haunts the kingfisher is easily the most con- 
spicuous object in sight, where he perches on some dead or pro- 
jecting branch over the water, intently watching for a dinner that 
is all unsuspectingly swimming below. Suddenly the bird drops 
—dives ; there is a splash, a struggle, and then the “lone fisher- 
man” returns triumphant to his perch, holding a shining fish in his 
beak. If the fish is small it is swallowed at once, but if it is large 
and bony it must first be killed against the branch. A few sharp 
knocks, and the struggles of the fish are over, but the kingfisher’s 
have only begun. How he gags and writhes, swallows his 
dinner, and then, regretting his haste, brings it up again to try 
another wider avenue down his throat! The many abortive 
efforts he makes to land his dinner safely below in his stomach, 
his grim contortions as the fishbones scratch his throat-lining on 
their way down and up again, force a smile in spite of the bird’s 
evident distress. It is small wonder he supplements his fish diet 
with various kinds of the larger insects, shrimps, and fresh-water 
mollusks. 
Flying well over the tree-tops or along the waterways, the 
kingfisher makes the woodland echo with his noisy rattle, that 
breaks the stillness like a watchman’s at midnight. It is, per- 
haps, the most familiar sound heard along the banks of the inland 
rivers. No love or cradle song does he know. Instead of soften- 
ing and growing sweet, as the voices of most birds do in the 
nesting season, the endearments uttered by a pair of mated king- 
fishers are the most strident, rattly shrieks ever heard by lovers. 
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