July, 1919 A RETURN TO THE DAKOTA LAKE REGION 161 
lay down exhausted, crying in the feeble, forlorn little tones to which I had 
been listening. He was so small and weak that I imagined he had fallen out of 
his nest and that his first distressed outery had come from the unexpected 
plunge. 
- Where was his mother? A call from an invisible adult made him react suf- 
ficiently to take a few toddling steps in its direction; but then, as if his dimly 
awakened mind lost its grasp, he stopped, fixed his feathers a little, and 
picked feebly from the ground. Again, when his calls were answered by a 
peep, as from a brother inside the tules, he made a weak run toward the sound, 
but tripped and went on his bill. Calling forlornly he picked himself up, but 
then sat down on the ground, too tired to stand, pathetic little chick! Just 
then a Black-crowned Night Heron rose from a neighboring blind with a loud 
squawk, and two old Coots with their nearly grown young swam out, one of the 
parents with lake weed in its bill. The sun came out lighting up the yellow 
bases of the reeds, turning the tule marsh into a miniature green forest, the re- 
flected stems patterning the smooth water and making a most attractive swim- 
iing pool. The nestling, creeping out a few feet farther, came near the edge 
of the pool and I wondered whether he were feeling the ancestral lure of the 
water or whether, having been so prematurely projected from his nest—grant- 
ing my surmise to be correct—the dry warm nest still dominated his weak little 
mind. ; 
At half past nine, after an hour and a half alone in the world, he haa 
nearly stopped calling, and when a motherly te-tub came from inside the tules, 
answered only faintly. He was getting rested, however, and soon went to 
work to preen his bedraggled plumage. As he combed his short bristly hairs 
with his red sealing wax bill, his markings came out plainly—his reddish crown 
encircled by black hairs with whitish hairs beneath. His stringy wings blew 
out as tiny flippers. But before his toilet could go farther, over he went, al- 
most on his back. 
That his mother might get courage to come to him, I moved, a little at a 
time, farther and farther back among the willows, at each move losing sight of 
him among the old dead tule stalks on the dark ground, finding him again only 
by means of his reddish head—of which interesting fact I made note. While I 
sat watching him through my willow screen, a Yellow Warbler flew down on 
the platform, looked about jauntily and then flew up clinging to the reeds, 
hunting for insects or, perhaps, threads for a second nest. A pair of Redwings 
also flew down to look over the platform for something they wanted. Then a 
large flock of Ducks passed over head, from one of the eastern lakes, flying on 
to light down by the Coulee. 
Would the mother Coot never come? Was she still brooding the brother 
nestlings, or was she down on the water feeding them while waiting for me to 
20? Meanwhile the small Redhead had again been working on his toilet, and 
though he still looked decidedly hairy, seemed comparatively dry and fluffed 
out. Just then, losing his balance, he slipped into the water. Before I had 
time to wonder what he would do, he hurriedly climbed back onto dry land, 
his mind not yet free from the dry nest. This plunge, however, probably put 
him in a coming on mood, for it was not so bad as his first plunges, and when, 
after a little more preening, he slipped into the water again, he settled down 
on its surface with the ease of long generations of aquatic ancestors, and 
