IN THE ESTERO 



sion of raucous cries, and made off beyond the 

 railway seaward, where he speedily became a 

 speck, and then vanished altogether. 



" Good-bye, and thank you for small favors," I 

 called after him. There was no one by to smile 

 at my enthusiasm. And even if there had been, 

 why not thank a bird as well as a man or a dog .' 



His departure, regrettable as it was, did not 

 leave me without plenty of congenial society. 

 The place was alive with smaller birds — West- 

 ern sandpipers, least sandpipers, snowy plovers 

 (fifty or more), killdeers, and, much the most in- 

 teresting of all, the others being matters of 

 every day, two kind of phalaropes, one red pha- 

 larope — or so I called it, with something short 

 of certainty at the time, and more still in the 

 retrospect — and three of the kind known as 

 Wilson's or the American. 



The red one — in autumnal dress, sporting not 

 so much as a single red feather, and suspici- 

 ously ahead of its schedule — kept strictly by 

 itself off in one corner, while the three Wilson's 

 flocked together in the midst of the sandpipers. 

 One of them was in gray, as to the upper parts, 

 I mean, the other two in motley, much like the 

 sandpipers, to my ignorant surprise. 



All had rather bright yellow legs, a mark of 

 youth, like the mottled wings, and a novel feature 

 49 



