“THE LAST AMERICAN”? 297 
hover above the spot, hoping perhaps that some 
duck might be weak or crippled or young, and 
so an easy prey; but, failing to see such a one, 
he would strike anyway, into the startled flock. 
A canvas back duck, or a grebe, however, he 
never succeeded in getting, for the race is not al- 
ways to the strong. Sometimes it is to the quick 
and crafty. Any diving bird could almost in- 
variably escape him. He could not cleave below 
water as could the osprey, or great fish hawk, who 
lived over the mountain by the big pond. Conse- 
quently he hunted the water fowl] as little as need 
be, for he hated effort spent in vain. Rather, 
when dead fish were few and hard to find, he pre- 
ferred to cruise for miles a few hundred feet up 
above the river bed, or circle over lakes and ponds, 
his wonderful eyes bent downward, watching for 
live fish under the water, estimating their dis- 
tance from the surface, waiting the moment they 
should rise to the top to give him the chance to 
snatch them out of their element. This great, 
lonely bird, coursing the waterways on tireless 
wings, was fighting an incessant battle, after all, 
the long battle with hunger, for the preservation 
