THE HUMMING-BIRD OF THE CALIFORNIA WATER-FALLS. 549 
wades up-stream, and oftentimes while his 
head is under water the swift current is de¬ 
flected upward along the glossy curves of his 
neck and shoulders, in the form of a clear, 
crystalline shell, which fairly incloses him 
like a bell-glass, the shell being con¬ 
stantly broken and re-formed as he lifts and 
dips his head; while ever and anon he 
sidles out to where the too powerful cur¬ 
rent carries him off his feet, and sweeps 
him rapidly down-stream; then he dexter¬ 
ously rises on the wing and goes gleaning 
again in shallower places. 
But during the winter, when the stream- 
banks are all deeply embossed in snow, 
and the streams themselves are chilled nearly 
to the freezing point, so that the snow fall¬ 
ing into them in stormy weather is not 
wholly dissolved, but forms a thin l)lue 
sludge, thus rendering the current opaque— 
then he seeks the deeper portions of the 
main rivers, where he may dive to clear 
portions of the channel beneath the sludge. 
Or he repairs to some open lake or mill¬ 
pond, at the bottom of which he feeds in 
perfect safety. 
When thus compelled to betake him¬ 
self to a lake, he does not plunge into it at 
once like a duck, but always alights in the 
first place upon some rock or fallen pine 
along the shore, then flying out thirty or 
forty yards, more or less, according to the 
character of the bottom, he alights with a 
dainty glint on the surface, swims about, 
looks down, finally makes up his mind and 
disappears with a sharp stroke of his wings. 
After feeding for two or three minutes he 
suddenly re-appears, showers the water from 
his wings with one vigorous shake, and 
rises abruptly into the air as if })ushed up 
from beneath, comes back to his perch, sings 
a few minutes and goes out to dive again \ 
thus coming and going, singing and diving 
at the same places for hours. 
I once observed three thus spending a 
winter morning in company, upon a small 
glacier lake, on the Upper Merced, about 
7,500 feet above the level of the sea. 
A storm had occurred during the night, but 
the morning sun shone unclouded, and the 
shadowy lake, gleaming darkly in its setting 
of fresh snow, lay smooth and motionless 
as a mirror. 
My camp chanced to be within a few 
feet of the water’s edge, opposite a fallen 
pine, some of the branches of which leaned 
out over the lake. Here my three dearly 
welcome visitors took up their station, and 
at once began to embroider the frosty 
air with their delicious melody, doubly de¬ 
lightful to me that particular morning, as 
1 had been somewhat apprehensive of 
danger in breaking my way down to the 
lowlands. 
"Hie jiortion of the lake bottom selected 
for a feeding-ground lies at a dejith of 
fifteen or twenty feet below the surface, 
and is covered with a short growth of 
algae and other a([uatic plants,—facts I 
chanced to be able to determine by having 
previously floated over it on a raft and 
made soundings. 
After alighting on the glassy surface, the 
birds would occasionally indulge in a little 
play, chasing each other round about in 
small circles; then all three would suddenly 
dive together, and come ashore and sing. 
I'hey are usually found singly, however, 
rarely in pairs excepting during the breed¬ 
ing season, and re}y rarely in threes or 
fours. 
They seldom swim more than a few 
yards on the surface, for, not being web¬ 
footed, they make rather slow progress, 
but by means of their strong, crisp wings 
they swim, or rather fly, with great celerity 
under the surface, often to considerable 
distances. 
But it is in withstanding the force of 
rushing torrents that their strength of wing in 
this respect is most strikingly manifested. 
The following may be regarded as a fair illus¬ 
tration of their easy, unconscious powers of 
sub-aquatic flight. One winter morning, 
when the Merced River was blue and green 
with unmelted snow, 1 observed one of 
my ouzels perched on a snag out in the 
midst of a swift rushing rapid. He sang 
cheerily, as if everything was just to his 
mind, and while I stood on the bank 
admiring him, he suddenly plunged into 
the sludgy current, leaving his song broken 
abruptly off. After feeding a minute or two 
at the bottom, and when one would suppose 
he must inevitably be swept far down-stream, 
he emerged just where he went down, 
alighted on the same snag, showered the 
water beads from his feathers, and at once 
continued his unfinished song, splicing it 
together as if it had suffered no inteiTuption. 
I'he ouzel alone of all birds dares to enter 
a white torrent. And though strictly ter¬ 
restrial in structure, no other is so insepara¬ 
bly related to w'ater,'not even* the duck, or 
bold ocean albatross, or storm-petrel. Ducks 
go ashore when they have done feeding in 
undisturbed places, and frequently make long 
overland flights from lake to lake or from field 
