492 



RECREATION 



and the sandpiper and the bittern built 

 their nests. It was in a flag-grown bay the 

 bittern chose its well-matched home. Time 

 after time we passed the sitting bird, which 

 matched the green sprouting and dead, dry 

 yellow foliage perfectly. Our striking at a 

 pair of blacksnakes that were sunning them- 

 selves on a black alder branch made the bird 

 flush. We took a picture of the nest, and 

 later, through the binoculars, we watched 

 the bird make its unusual cry, "A-ker- 

 plunk — a-ker-plunk." It stood stiffly in the 

 marsh, its bill pointed erect as a steeple, 

 matching the marsh coloring nicely. But in 

 this case the cover was not more than two 

 inches high, so the striped harlequin looked 

 very comical. Suddenly the head was 

 thrown forward and a gulp of air drawn in 

 with a reed-like noise; swelling out the air- 

 pouch, three times more it did this, until the 

 pouch grew as large as a tennis ball. Then 

 the head was drawn in until it rested on the 

 back, when out it shot and out shot the cry, 

 " A-ker-plunk ! " Far down the river the 

 male bird answered. Three times more the 

 calls w T ere repeated, then she slunk through 

 the grass like a rat. We took several pic- 

 tures of the least bittern, the orange and 

 green and buff little beauty, flitting over the 

 marsh like a spray of color, mate of the 

 greater bird, except in the richer beauty of 

 its livery. 



The English snipe outwitted us, if they 

 breed here. The golden plover and the 

 yellowlegs had gone far north to breed, but 

 that charming black and white and buff 

 velvet bird, the killdeer, was with us. We 



found her on her nest. Away she struggled, 

 rolling and tumbling on the ground, uttering 

 a strange hissing noise with her plaintive 

 cry. Anything to decoy us away from that 

 precious nest. Her alarm was unnecessary. 

 We set up the cameras, secreted ourselves, 

 and over flew the male bird and told her in 

 plover fashion that we were behind the 

 brush. I bade Fritz wander away down the 

 field and sit in the open, whereupon the 

 male watched him and the female returned 

 to the tiny depression, lined with a few bits 

 of grass, that she called her nest. The four 

 black-splashed olive-brown eggs were warm 

 in the May sun and she ran up the little 

 slope and stared at the bright lens. She was 

 "easy." 



"Tweet, tweet," called the " tip-up" 

 from a neighboring held, and we turned and 

 saw the spotted sandpiper flying away from 

 its nest, built like the killdeer's on a slight 

 crest, rude and almost unlined. She also 

 decoyed with fluttering wings and pitiful 

 cry. Poor bird 1 would we were your only 

 enemies. With much care we concealed the 

 cameras; with more she returned, flying 

 over, running through the grass like a rat, 

 peeping here, peering there. But finally the 

 mother instinct overcame her and she re- 

 turned to her nest and had her picture 

 taken; yes, and gave it to us again as she 

 turned the eggs over and over, and another 

 as she flew away. Laughingly we doffed 

 our hats in thanks as we turned the rolls 

 that added these to our collection of the 

 feathered game and] shore birds of Sweet 

 Canada. 



ON THE UPPER OTONABEE 



