The Western Belted Kingfisher 
along the sea-coast in the San Diegan district, less common northerly, at least to 
Tomales Bay (Mailliard). 
Authorities.—Vigors (Alcedo alcyon ), Zool. Voy. “Blossom,” 1839, p. 16 (San 
Francisco); Carpenter, Condor, vol. xix., 1917, p. 22 (Escondido, breeding); Howell, 
Pac. Coast Avifauna, no. 12, 1917, p. 60 (s. Calif, ids.); J. Mailliard, Condor, vol. 
xxiii., 1921, p. 194 (Marin Co., nesting habits). 
WHEN we were small boys and had successfully teased our fathers 
or big brothers to let us go fishing with them, we were repeatedly admon¬ 
ished not to “holler” for fear of scaring the fish. This gratuitous and 
frequently emphatic advice would have been discredited if the example of 
the Kingfisher had been followed. Either because noise doesn’t matter to 
fish, or because he is moved by the same generous impulse which prompts 
the mountain lion to give fair and frightful warning of his presence at the 
beginning of an intended foray, the bird makes a dreadful racket as he 
moves upstream and settles upon his favorite perch, a bare branch over¬ 
looking a quiet pool. Here, although he waits long and patiently, he not 
infrequently varies the monotony of incessant scrutiny by breaking out 
with his weird rattle—like a watchman’s call, some have said; but there is 
nothing metallic about it, only wooden. Again, when game is sighted, he 
rattles with excitement before he makes a plunge; and when he bursts out 
of the water with a wriggling minnow in his beak, he clatters in high glee. 
If, as rarely happens, the bird misses the stroke, the sputtering notes 
which follow speak plainly of disgust, and we are glad for the moment that 
Kingfisher talk is not exactly translatable. 
It is not quite clear whether the bird usually seizes or spears its prey, 
although it is certain that it sometimes does the latter. The story is told 
of a Kingfisher which, spying some minnows in a wooden tub nearly filled 
with water, struck so eagerly that its bill penetrated the bottom of the 
tub, and so thoroughly that the bird was unable to extricate itself; and so 
died—a death almost as ignominious as that of the king who was drowned 
in a butt of Malmsey wine. 
When a fish is taken, the bird first thrashes it against its perch to 
make sure it is dead, and then swallows it head foremost. If the fish is a 
large one its captor often finds it necessary to go through the most ridicu¬ 
lous contortions, gaspings, writhings, chokings, regurgitations, and 
renewed attempts, in order to encompass its safe delivery within. 
Kingfishers have the reputation ot being very unsocial birds. Apart 
from their family life, which is idyllic, this reputation is well sustained. 
Good fishing is so scarce that the birds deem it best to portion off the 
territory with others of their own kind, and they are very punctilious 
about the observance of boundaries and allotments. For the rest, why 
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