1164 The Problem of the Soaring Bird. [ December, 
jutting from the bank, and while adjusting the trouble a well- 
known cry sounded far above in the air, which at once banished 
all desire to sleep. I knew the note quite well. It denoted the 
arrival of sandhill, or whooping, cranes from the north. Twenty- 
five years before I had seen them on the western prairies lift 
themselves on fixed wings above the clouds, and I had no doubt 
but what the call proceeded from birds which had the evening 
before been in the region of the great lakes of. our northern 
boundary. Before sunrise at least fifty had arrived, and were 
greeted by their comrades on the land in the interior of the key. 
They came down in great circles from a height of not less than 
three miles, on tensely stretched wings, until within 200 feet of 
the earth, when they suddenly began a slow flapping which con- 
tinued to the ground. I had often seen them begin their migra- 
tions, but never before witnessed the ending.. They would aver- 
age a weight of ten pounds, with about eight square feet of wing 
surface. In rising they slowly beat the air until a suitable eleva- 
tion is reached, when they assume a fixed position and continue 
their upward flight in great circles to a high altitude, when they 
swing off at a tangent for the south. I have never seen one of 
these birds move its wings after stopping them in its ascent, until 
they had arrived at the same level in alighting. 
The buzzards were the best species for observation from the 
ground. Their patience was simply inexhaustible. I watched a 
small flock of these birds for fourteen consecutive hours while 
- they floated in the breeze, waiting my removal from a dead por- 
poise stranded on the beach. Nothing could surpass the loveli- 
ness of the day nor the bland freshness of the incoming breeze. 
The birds would average eight feet in spread of wings, would 
weigh six pounds, and have about six square feet of wing surface. 
A memorandum book was filled with notes of the day’s expe- 
rience. About a score of flaps were made between twelve and 
three o’clock in the afternoon when the wind was quite active and 
_ filled with flaws. From four to six in the evening they were as 
_ motionless as if petrified. As the sun disappeared behind the 
waters of the Gulf, I ended the hardest day’s work I ever made, 
and was not fifty feet away before every bird had its beak in the 
arcass, For several days after this really imprudent exertion of 
eni ntion Iwas abed, but on resuming the subject determined 
eriment. pistes: my eyes, assisted by a very good 
