324 The Bird 
we should see that this burst of speed would end in 
a long, slowly descending sail, and with wings held mo- 
tionless the bird would sink into the nearest cover. It is 
most interesting and exciting to walk through a field 
of tall grass where many pheasants are feeding, and see 
them shoot up to the right and to the left; a hen with 
her brood waiting until one’s foot is almost upon her 
before booming away. 
In a zoological park we may observe another extreme 
of bird flight by watching a condor take wing. He waits 
until a breeze is blowing and then, facing the direction 
from which it comes, he runs with all his might, flapping 
awkwardly until sufficient headway 1s gained, when strong 
downward strokes carry him to the perch he has selected. 
We may, at first thought, pity him, but if we could see 
him soaring for hours high among the cloud-peaks of his 
native Andes, we should instead pity the low-flying pheas- 
ant. 
These two examples—the pheasant and the condor— 
show what differences may be found in flying birds, and 
as we examine the wings of other species, we find that 
each is perfectly adapted to the wants of its owner. A 
wing is a most delicately adjusted organ; its feathers 
being just strong enough to lift the body of its owner 
into the air, and, like evenly balanced scales, the least 
excess or lack of use is quickly met by a reaction. Com- 
pare the Black Skimmer of the seas, which is only eighteen 
inches in length, but whose long wings expand four feet, 
with a stubby-winged quail or grouse. 
There are some species of flycatchers with wonderful 
