158 
the bottom. So there lay before me some 
fifty little cushions of soft water grass float- 
ing on the unruffled surface, each freighted 
with two or three little greenish-white eggs. 
The colony of nests covered about an acre 
of water. 
As, by their cries, the grebes seemed 
anxious to return to their nests, I lay still 
at the bottom of the boat, close to one of 
the nests, to watch proceedings. The nest 
beside me was a soft, round cushion of 
bright green water grass, with a slight 
depression in the center, holding a couple 
of eggs. There was about six feet of water 
below, full of the long stems of the water- 
weed, and through the stems of their 
‘watery woodland” we could see large 
fresh water lizards about a foot long, 
called axolotls, or ‘‘siredons,” gliding to 
and fro. 
After waiting a while the birds summoned 
up courage™to cautiously return in pairs. 
One of them would swim around a nest, 
‘ stop suddenly as if to steady itself, then 
with a spring alight on the unstable cushion, 
arrange the nest with her bill and settle 
down on the eggs. I noticed that on arriving 
RECREATION 
at thenest the old bird seemed to have quitea 
a little to do with her bill in arranging or 
removing something before she settled. 
On carefully observing some of the other 
unoccupied nests, I found the eggs were 
hidden with grass and that when the 
birds left of their own free will to take a 
swim or ‘‘go fishing,” they covered up 
their eggs with eel grass, as a mother would 
cover up her baby with bedclothes after 
putting it to sleep. We saw the birds, upon 
their return, carefully remove this blanket 
and laying it aside to sit on the eggs. 
This covering was to keep the eggs warm. 
In that hot climate the water was warm and 
the saturated nest also. All that was 
needed was to shield the eggs from the 
cool breeze by the mother’s clever device. 
But alas for the wisdom and cleverness 
of these clever little fowl. One day there 
came a terrible wind-storm over the lake 
and the usually calm water rose in angry 
waves. Above the uproar came the shrill 
cries of the grebes; for every little nest broke 
from its moorings and was wrecked and 
tossed ashore. And we saw no more of the 
grebes or their nests that summer. 
THE LONELY ANGLER 
And their myriad, mystic voices rise and blend 
Wow the stately, sweeping currents hurry, ripple, dance and leap, 
With the mellow diapason of the deep-toned rocks they sweep, 
Ere the rippling, booming, tuneful anthems end; 
Where the rhythmic babble merges, in a deep, dark, shady nook, 
And the salmon and the sea-trout laze and play, 
’Tis there a favored angler, with his rod and pipe and book, 
Dreams and dreams the whole long golden summer day. 
All the forest voices blending, Peace and Love their sweet refrain; 
And the visions of his day-dreams, real and true; 
Beside the teeming waters, undisputed in his reign: 
I do, really, lonely angler, envy you. 
—W. J. Carroll. 
