Taken 



The Western Grebe 



are never less than three 

 feet apart and there is 

 no apparent difference 

 in behavior or interest. 

 When a dozen feet or so 

 have been covered by 

 this stately march, both 

 collapse and plunge un- 

 der water head first. 

 This procession I have 

 witnessed several times, 

 and it was once partici- 

 pated in by three birds 

 on equal terms. 



These are rare 

 glimpses. For the rest 

 the Western Grebe is a 

 voice, high and broken, 

 like nothing else, per- 

 haps, so much as the 

 creak of a neglected pul- 

 ley-block. Krik, krik, 

 krik, krik, comes from 

 off the shimmering wa- 

 ters of San Diego Bay, 

 and you think of the 

 pine-clad slopes and 

 weedy recesses of Eagle 

 Lake in Lassen County. 

 Krik, krik, krik, krik, 

 comes the weird cry 

 from off the bosom of 

 the lake, a little anxious now as you bend over the side of your canoe to 

 count the eggs; and you pause a moment to recall Point Loma and the 

 lemon-scented breezes of Ramona's land. 



No account of the Western Grebe is complete without some refer- 

 ence to the Great Persecution endured by the race at the hands of the 

 plume-hunters. At the behest of a cruel fashion, ever on the alert for 

 novelty, the virgin fastnesses of the West were invaded in the early 

 Nineties by as ruthless a band as ever scuttled ships or fired wigwams, — 

 the grebe-hunters. The feathers of these birds, glistening white and 

 water tight, made excellent muffs or stoles, or even capes, as warm as 



2045 



Photo by the Author 



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