755 
Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 
ficulty in persuading the young birds to 
pitch themselves from the main roof to 
the porch roof among the ivy, but to get 
them safely down from the latter to the 
ground, a distance of ten feet, was most 
distressing. It seemed impossible the 
frail soft things could avoid being killed. 
The anxious parents led them to a point 
above a spiraea bush, that reached nearly 
to the eaves, which they seemed to know 
would break the fall. Anyhow they led 
their chicks to this point, and with infi¬ 
nite coaxing and encouragement got 
them to tumble themselves off. Down 
they rolled and sifted through the soft 
leaves and panicles to the pavement, and, 
strange to say, all got away unhurt ex¬ 
cept one that lay as if dead for a few 
minutes. When it revived, the joyful 
parents, with their brood fairly launched 
on the journey of life, proudly led them 
down the cottage hill, through the gar¬ 
den, and along an osage orange hedge 
into the cherry orchard. These charm¬ 
ing birds even enter towns and villages, 
where the gardens are of good size and 
guns are forbidden, sometimes going sev¬ 
eral miles to feed, and returning every 
evening to their roosts in ivy or brushy 
trees and shrubs. 
Geese occasionally visit the park, but 
never stay long. Sometimes on their 
way across the range, a flock wanders 
into Hetch-Hetchy or Yosemite to rest 
or get something to eat, and if shot at, 
are often sorely bewildered in seeking a 
way out. I have seen them rise from 
the meadow or river, wheel round in a 
spiral until a height of four or five hun¬ 
dred feet was reached, then form ranks 
and try to fly over the wall. But Yo¬ 
semite magnitudes seem to be as decep¬ 
tive to geese as to men, for they would 
suddenly find themselves against the 
cliffs not a fourth of the way to the top. 
Then turning in confusion, and scream¬ 
ing at the strange heights, they would 
try the opposite side, and so on, until ex¬ 
hausted they were compelled to rest, and 
only after discovering the river canon 
could they make their escape. Large 
harrow-shaped flocks may often be seen 
crossing the range in the spring, at a 
height of at least fourteen thousand feet. 
Think of the strength of wing required 
to sustain so heavy a bird in air so thin. 
At this elevation it is but little over half 
as dense as at the sea level. Yet they 
hold bravely on in beautifully dressed 
ranks, and have breath enough to spare 
for loud honking. After the crest of the 
Sierra is passed it is only a smooth slide 
down the sky to the waters of Mono, 
where they may rest as long as they 
like. 
Ducks of five or six species, among 
which are the mallard and wood duck, 
go far up into the heart of the moun¬ 
tains in the spring, and of course come 
down in the fall with the families they 
have reared. A few, as if loath to leave 
the mountains, pass the winter in the 
lower valleys of the park at a height of 
three thousand to four thousand feet, 
where the main streams are never wholly 
frozen over, and snow never falls to a 
great depth or lies long. In summer 
they are found up to a height of eleven 
thousand feet on all the lakes and 
branches of the rivers except the small¬ 
est, and those beside the glaciers encum¬ 
bered with drifting ice and snow. I found 
mallards and wood ducks at Lake Te- 
naya, June 1, before the ice-covering was 
half melted, and a flock of young ones 
in Bloody Canon Lake, June 20. They 
are usually met in pairs, never in large 
flocks. No place is too wild or rocky 
or solitary for these brave swimmers, no 
stream too rapid. In the roaring, re¬ 
sounding canon torrents, they seem as 
much at home as in the tranquil reaches 
and lakes of the broad glacial valleys. 
Abandoning themselves to the wild play 
of the waters, they go drifting confid' 
ingly through blinding, thrashing spray, 
dancing on boulder-dashed waves, toss¬ 
ing in beautiful security on rougher wa¬ 
ter than is usually encountered by sea 
birds when storms are blowing. 
