BUZZARDS, HAWKS AND EAGLES IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. 
By J. H. Morrow. 
If one wants to be impressed with a sense of 
loneliness (did I say impressed ?—oppressed 
would be better), he should ascend a foothill of 
Southern California, and, far above the plains 
and the habitations of man, become an object 
of interest to a circling flock of buzzards. The 
fact that he is on horseback, and that his wiry 
and intelligent pony every now and then turns 
its head around with an inquiring look in its 
troubled eyes, does not affect the situation. 
The presence of those dreadful, slow-moving 
birds, wheeling so near that their wickedly 
hungry little black eyes are plainly visible, 
strikes terror to the heart. And the thought 
comes: ‘‘ How quickly would these creatures 
pounce upon me were I to be prostrated by 
sudden illness in this spot, remote from human 
aid.” 
Recently the writer had such an experience— 
all but the prostration—on one of the foothills 
back of Whittier, a little town a dozen miles 
from Los Angeles. The birds were to be num- 
bered by the dozens, and kept up a noiseless, 
constant flight in circles, with the rider as a 
central point, that was an interesting study. 
With the instinct of their species they seemed 
to recognize the fact that in the barrenness and 
remoteness of the spot there was chance for 
mishap and for the harvest of death which their 
nature craved. Frequently they flew so near 
that the fanning of their great wings could al- 
most be felt. But for their featherless necks 
and ugly heads they would have been objects 
to be admired, so graceful were their move- 
ments. No gulls in the Bay of San Francisco 
ever cleft the air more majestically than they. 
But as one gazed upon them the feeling was 
that of absolute repulsion, of undefined dread. 
Still more recently, on a far-reaching plain 
or mesa, the writer again came upon a flock of 
these despicable but useful birds, for as scaven- 
gers they have a use so important that by the 
laws of the State they are protected from mo- 
lestion. The spot was on the edge of a gulch 
through which ran a stream of water. Judg- 
ing from the stench which filled the air, some 
animal] was lying dead in the long grass a hun- 
dred yards from the roadside. There the buz- 
zards were assembled, voraciously devouring 
their toothsome meal. As we rode up a num- 
ber of them slowly rose from the ground and 
began circling about us. One old fellow with 
especially wicked eyes lazily winged his way 
to the top of a telegraph pole just ahead and 
perched there until we had ridden by, as 
though sizing us up and reckoning the chances 
of a fresh repast. When we had passed he in- 
dulged in a parting wheel above us and then 
rejoined his companions in their discussion of 
the bill of fare by the side of the gulch. 
As a rule these buzzards of California fly 
singly. They are met with most frequently in 
uninhabited regions. Their ‘‘scent” for car- 
rion is very acute, and one scarcely makes a 
“find” before companions begin arriving from 
every point of the compass. 
In striking contrast to the buzzard is the 
hawk family. Hawks, from little fellows 
scarcely larger than pigeons to big fellows 
almost as large as eagles, are very common in 
California. But their business is with the liv- 
ing, not with the dead, and they awaken cor- 
responding respect. They are very wary; to 
get within even shooting distance of them is 
difficult. On a ride between Puente and 
Pomona the writer came across several big 
ones, as well as many of the smaller species. 
The latter showed a bird-like fondness for 
telegraph poles and wires, though they would 
fly swiftly away as the traveler approached. 
The former were seldom at rest, but kept cir- 
cling in the distance, now and then swooping 
down in pursuit of some small animal. Their 
hooked beaks made them look formidable when 
they could be approached closely enough to be 
seen, but there was a dignity about the birds 
that excited emotions of respect utterly wanting 
in the case of the buzzard. 
Eagles are not abundant. Unless they are 
protected by statute, as they should be in every 
State, and as they are in Connecticut, they 
must soon become things of the past, or at least 
very rare in California. Wesaw recently ina 
glass case in a San Bernardino drug store, a 
very large and beautiful specimen of this spe- 
cies of bird. It was owned by a naturalist- 
taxidermist, and was referred to by the drug- 
gist as rare. Unless the American people are 
careful, this splendid bird will only be found in 
museums and on the “coin of the realm,” 
