546 THE HUMMING-BIRD OF THE CALIFORNIA WATER-FALLS. 
mitic canons of the middle region, not one 
was found without its ouzel. No canon is 
too cold for him, none too lonely, provided 
it be rich in white falling water. Find a 
fall, or cascade, or rushing rapid, anywhere 
upon a clear crystalline stream, and there 
you will surely find its complementary ouzel, 
flitting about in the spray, diving in foaming 
eddies, whirling like a leaf among beaten 
foam-bells; ever vigorous and enthusiastic, 
yet self-contained, and neither seeking nor 
shunning your comj^any. 
If disturbed while dipping about in the 
margin shallows, he either sets ofif with a 
rapid whir to some other feeding-ground 
up or down the stream, or alights on some 
half-submerged rock or snag out in the 
foaming current, and immediately begins to 
nod and courtesy like a wren, turning his 
head from side to side and performing many 
other odd dainty manners as if he had been 
trained at some bird dancing-school. 
He is the mountain streams’own darling, 
—the humming-bird of blooming waters, 
loving rocky ripple-slopes and sheets of 
foam, as a bee loves flowers,—as a lark 
loves sunshine and meadows. Among all 
the mountain birds, none has cheered me 
so much in my lonely wanderings,—none so 
unfailingly. For winter and summer he 
sings, independent alike of sunshine and 
love; requiring no other inspiration than 
the stream on which he dwells. While 
water sings, so must he; in heat or cold, 
calm or storm, ever attuning his voice in 
sure accord; low in the drouth of summer 
and drouth of winter, but never silent. 
During the golden days of Indian sum¬ 
mer the mountain streams are feeble,—a 
succession of silent pools, linked together 
with strips of silvery lace-work; then the 
song of the ouzel is at its lowest ebb. But 
as soon as the winter clouds have bloomed, 
and the mountain treasuries are once more 
replenished with snow, the voices of the 
streams and ouzels begin to increase in 
strength and richness until the flood season 
of early summer, 'fhen the glad torrents 
chant their noblest anthems, and then too 
is the flood-time of our songster’s melody. 
But as to the influence of the weather, dark 
days anti sun days are the same to him. 
The voices of most song-birds, however 
joyous, suffer a long winter eclipse; but the 
ouzel sings on around all the seasons, and 
through every kind of storm. Indeed no 
storm can be more violent than those of the 
water-falls in the midst of which he delights 
to dwell. At least, from whatever cause, 
while the weather is darkest and most 
boisterous, snowing, blowing, cloudy or 
clear, all the same he sings, and never a 
note of sadness. No need of spring sun¬ 
shine to thaw /iis song, for it never freezes. 
Never shall you hear anything wintry from 
/Is warm breast; no pinched cheeping, no 
wavering notes between sadness and joy; 
his mellow, fluty voice is ever tuned to 
downright gladness, as free from every trace 
of dejection as cock-crowing. 
It is pitiful to see wee frost-pinched spar¬ 
rows, on cold mornings, shaking the snow 
from their feathers, and hopping about as 
if anxious to be cheery, then hastening back 
to their hidings out of the wind, puffing out 
their breast feathers, and subsiding among 
the leaves, cold and breakfastless, while the 
snow continues to fall, and no sign of clear¬ 
ing. But the ouzel never calls forth a single 
touch of pity; not because he is strong to 
endure, but rather because he seems to live 
a charmed life beyond the reach of ever)" 
influence that makes endurance necessary. 
One wild winter morning, when Yosemite 
Valley was swept from west to east by a 
cordial snow-storm, I sallied forth to see 
what I might learn and enjoy. A sort of 
gray, gloaming-like darkness was kept up 
by the storm, and the loudest booming of 
the falls was at times buried beneath its 
sublime roar. The snow was already over 
five feet deej) on the meadows, making 
very extended walks impossible without the 
aid of snow-shoes. I found no great diffi¬ 
culty, however, in making my way to a cer¬ 
tain ripple on the river where one of my 
ouzels lived. He was at home as usual, 
gleaning his breakfast among the pebbles 
of a shallow portion of the margin, and 
apparently altogether unconscious of any¬ 
thing extraordinary in the weather. Pres¬ 
ently fie flew out to a stone against which 
the icy current was beating, and turning 
his back to the wind, sang delightfully as a 
lark in spring-time. 
After spending an hour or two with my 
favorite, I went plodding through the drifts, 
to learn as definitely as possible how the 
other birds were spending their time. The 
Yosemite birds are easily found during the 
winter, because all excepting the ouzel are 
restricted to the sunny north side of the 
valley, the south side being constantly 
eclipsed by the great frosty shadow of the 
wall. And because the Indian Canon groves 
from their peculiar exposure are the warm¬ 
est, all the birds congregate there, more 
especially in severe weather. 
