324 The Bird 



we should see that this burst of speed would end in 

 a long, slowly descending sail, and with wings held mo- 

 tionless the bird would sink into the nearest cover. It is 

 most interesting and exciting to walk through a field 

 of tall grass where many pheasants are feeding, and see 

 them shoot up to the right and to the left; a hen with 

 her brood waiting until one's foot is almost upon her 

 before booming away. 



In a zoological park we may observe another extreme 

 of bird flight by watching a condor take wing. He waits 

 until a breeze is blowing and then, facing the direction 

 from which it comes, he runs with all his might, flapping 

 awkwardly until sufficient headway is gained, when strong 

 downward strokes carry him to the perch he has selected. 

 We may, at first thought, pity him, but if we could see 

 him soaring for hours high among the cloud-peaks of his 

 native Andes, we should instead pity the low-flying pheas- 

 ant. 



These two examples the pheasant and the condor 

 show what differences may be found in flying birds, and 

 as we examine the wings of other species, we find that 

 each is perfectly adapted to the wants of its owner. A 

 wing is a most delicately adjusted organ; its feathers 

 being just strong enough to lift the body of its owner 

 into the air, and, like evenly balanced scales, the least 

 excess or lack of use is quickly met by a reaction. Com- 

 pare the Black Skimmer of the seas, which is only eighteen 

 inches in length, but whose long wings expand four feet, 

 with a stubby-winged quail or grouse. 



There are some species of flycatchers with wonderful 



