The Western Belted Kingfisher 



along the sea-coast in the San Diegan district, less common northerly, at least to 

 Tomales Bay (Mailliard). 



Authorities. — Vigors (Alcedo alcyon), Zool. Voy. "Blossom," 1839, p. 16 (San 

 Francisco); Carpenter, Condor, vol. xix., 1917, p. 22 (Escondido, breeding); Howell, 

 Pac. Coast Avifauna, no. 12, 1917, p. 60 (s. Calif, ids.); J. Mailliard, Condor, vol. 

 xxiii., 1921, p. 194 (Marin Co., nesting habits). 



WHEN we were small boys and had successfully teased our fathers 

 or big brothers to let us go fishing with them, we were repeatedly admon- 

 ished not to "holler" for fear of scaring the fish. This gratuitous and 

 frequently emphatic advice would have been discredited if the example of 

 the Kingfisher had been followed. Either because noise doesn't matter to 

 fish, or because he is moved by the same generous impulse which prompts 

 the mountain lion to give fair and frightful warning of his presence at the 

 beginning of an intended foray, the bird makes a dreadful racket as he 

 moves upstream and settles upon his favorite perch, a bare branch over- 

 looking a quiet pool. Here, although he waits long and patiently, he not 

 infrequently varies the monotony of incessant scrutiny by breaking out 

 with his weird rattle — like a watchman's call, some have said; but there is 

 nothing metallic about it, only wooden. Again, when game is sighted, he 

 rattles with excitement before he makes a plunge ; and when he bursts out 

 of the water with a wriggling minnow in his beak, he clatters in high glee. 

 If, as rarely happens, the bird misses the stroke, the sputtering notes 

 which follow speak plainly of disgust, and we are glad for the moment that 

 Kingfisher talk is not exactly translatable. 



It is not quite clear whether the bird usually seizes or spears its prey, 

 although it is certain that it sometimes does the latter. The story is told 

 of a Kingfisher which, spying some minnows in a wooden tub nearly filled 

 with water, struck so eagerly that its bill penetrated the bottom of the 

 tub, and so thoroughly that the bird was unable to extricate itself; and so 

 died — a death almost as ignominious as that of the king who was drowned 

 in a butt of Malmsey wine. 



When a fish is taken, the bird first thrashes it against its perch to 

 make sure it is dead, and then swallows it head foremost. If the fish is a 

 large one its captor often finds it necessary to go through the most ridicu- 

 lous contortions, gaspings, writhings, chokings, regurgitations, and 

 renewed attempts, in order to encompass its safe delivery within. 



Kingfishers have the reputation of being very unsocial birds. Apart 

 from their family life, which is idyllic, this reputation is well sustained. 

 Good fishing is so scarce that the birds deem it best to portion off the 

 territory with others of their own kind, and they are very punctilious 

 about the observance of boundaries and allotments. For the rest, why 



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