The Common Loon 



wings and feet, then by combined running and flying, until the feet clear 

 at last, and the aspirant attains a proper motion. Once started, the 

 Loon's flight is swift and powerful, the wings accomplishing by rapid 

 vibration what they lack in expanse. But the most helpless act of the 

 Loon's life is that of alighting. 



One early April day upon an interior lake, the author, with a com- 

 panion, had the combined good-and-ill-fortune to be caught out in a skiff 

 at the approach of a violent storm. There was a considerable flight of 

 Loons in progress; but many of the birds, being warned by the storm signs, 

 began to settle from invisible heights toward the welcoming lake. This 

 they did, not by inclining the wings, but by moving in small circles, with 

 wing-beat restrained to an apparent minimum; thus sinking slowly 

 through the operation of gravity. As they neared earth, the earlier 

 arrivals circled overhead in stately squads, and exchanged greetings or 

 inquiry with others already seated upon the water. A soft, mellow, 

 mirthless laugh, Whoogh, hoo hoo, would ring out over the lake and be 

 answered from a distance, perhaps a mile away. When the mind of a 

 newcomer was thoroughly made up to the painful necessity, say at a 

 hundred yards, he ceased beating the air, set the wings stiffly, and began 

 to fall obliquely toward the water. No doubt he dreads the shock, but the 

 very desperation of resolve is painted on every feature, till — crash! goes 

 the luckless fowl and is momentarily lost to sight in the upheaval of waters. 

 Some fall like spent meteors, until it would seem they must perish in the 

 shock, or at least break bones; especially, since the bird invariably strikes 

 the water with outspread wings. No casualties result, however, and a few, 

 more expert, come at such a low angle as to distribute the force of impact 

 in a long furrow. Talk about "shooting the chutes"; it was no Yankee 

 who invented that game. It was a Loon. 



Faster and faster came the descending birds, and less and less pains 

 did they take with the manner of descending until, when the storm-cloud 

 burst in good earnest with an all-obliterating crash of rain, the last Loon 

 had been gathered to his fellows, and the birds raised an exultant chorus 

 of weird laughter. 



Because of its infirmity of gait, the Loon usually nests quite near the 

 water's edge, on some wood-bound lake or solitary mountain mere, so that 

 it may glide into the water unobserved, at the approach of danger. And 

 because the eggs are of such a perfect mud-color themselves, there is little 

 attempt made to conceal the nest. On the contrary, a position on some 

 promontory, or projecting log, is chosen, so that the bird may command 

 with its watchful eye a wide stretch of territory. Treasure trove the Loon 

 considers the stub of some submerged tree broken off at the water line. 

 Here, if the water is quiet enough, she heaps up a miscellaneous mound of 



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