158 THE CONDOR Vol. XIX 



of nine big motionless figures on a streak of white, doubtless the beach of a 

 distant lagoon — solemn lookers-on at the play. 



But these distinguished characters were not the only ones seen along the 

 shore. A solitary Coot stood near the edge of the water preening itself, a fam- 

 ily ( ?) of seven Killdeer were standing together on the beach, Ravens croaked 

 in passing over from the lake to a pasture where grasshoppers were abundant, 

 an Ash-throated Flycatcher sat on an elderberry tree, a Black Phoebe perched 

 on a fence near the water, Black-headed Grosbeaks and Mockingbirds kept in 

 evidence, a Burrowing Owl flew from its burrow near the shore — a handful of 

 pellets were gathered in passing — and two little Cassin Kingbirds snuggled 

 tight to a branch while their parents flew over calling, and apparently fed 

 them on the wing; and then too, Goldfinch voices were in the air, and Eave 

 Swallows were flying back and forth overhead. What a scene of life ! As we 

 were luxuriating in it, we heard a tourist on a hilltop above us exclaim dis- 

 dainfully, "We've been down to the lake. There's nothing at the lake"! 



All that afternoon we were on the shore, Mr. Bailey trapping for gophers 

 in an attempt to solve a distribution problem raised farther up the range, so 

 the Ducks that were out on the lagoon may have gotten used to our figures un- 

 accompanied by shooting or accident to themselves. In any event, the next 

 morning on going to the traps we found them on the lagoon, and by walking 

 slowly and quietly toward them got within a few rods before any of them rose ; 

 and even when the mass had risen and circled around, many of them came 

 back, plumped down into the water, and swam quietly about the lagoon, work- 

 ing out to its weedy edges. Feeding with the Mallards and Gadwell, Cinnamon 

 Teal, which looked small by comparison, were especially tame, to my amaze- 

 ment coming up within a few yards of us, looking up at us curiously as we 

 talked to them. Possibly the most unsophisticated were young of the year who 

 had never passed through the horrors of an open season. Recalling the feeding 

 of wild Ducks on the ponds in Golden Gate Park, I wished fervently that we 

 might spend the day among our new friends trying to tame them. Not far 

 from shore three or four Dabchicks, told from the Ducks by their smaller size, 

 grace, and delicacy, were swimming about, now above, now below water. 



While the mammalogist was engaged in setting a gopher trap near the 

 shore of the lake, he was startled by a Cinnamon Teal bursting from her nest 

 in the grass only about a yard from him. Hurrying to the spot I found the 

 nest almost entirely hidden by soft yellow grass about a foot high. Bits of 

 broken egg shell on the ground outside made me wonder if some of the duck- 

 Lings had already left in charge of the other parent, as sometimes happens in 

 other bird families. In the nest, which was just a hollow in the ground encir- 

 cled by dusky down from the mother's breast, there were now only six eggs — 

 the clutch is given as eight to twelve — together with the pathetic body of a 

 downy yellow nestling. The old Duck had stood her ground bravely, but at the 

 last moment had burst away without stopping to cover the eggs, and one was 

 already pipped, while the midday sun was so hot it threatened to cook the oth- 

 ers before she could summon courage to return. Then her last hopes would come 

 to naught. Drawing the down carefully over the eggs we hurried away, taking 

 the yellow nestling that had lain dead under its mother 's breast after all these 

 weeks of waiting, after all the anxious nights when hungry coyotes passed 

 along the shore, after all the many long hours of patient brooding and care. 



Later in the morning as we came up the beach we crept quietly over to 



