What becomes of the young birds is also, to me, a mystery. The home ties
are very strong, and the little ones stay with the parents much longer
than most other birds do; but when the spring comes you will see only
the old birds at the home nest. The young come back to the same general
neighborhood, I think; but where the lake is small they never build nor
trespass on the same waters. As with the kingfishers and sheldrakes,
each pair of birds seem to have their own pond or portion; but by what
old law of the waters they find and stake their claim is yet to be
discovered.

There were two little ones in the nest when I first found it; and I used
to watch them in the intervals when nothing was stirring in the
underbrush near my hiding place. They were happy, whistling, little
fellows, well fed and contented with the world. At times they would
stand for hours on the edge of the nest, looking down over the slanting
tree-tops to the lake, finding the great rustling green world, and the
passing birds, and the glinting of light on the sparkling water, and the
hazy blue of the distant mountains marvelously interesting, if one could
judge from their attitude and their pipings. Then a pair of broad wings
would sweep into sight, and they would stretch their wings wide and
break into eager whistlings,--_Pip, pip, ch'wee? chip, ch'weeeeee?_ "did
you get him? is he a big one, mother?" And they would stand tiptoeing
gingerly about the edge of the great nest, stretching their necks
eagerly for a first glimpse of the catch.

At times only one of the old birds would go a-fishing, while the other
watched the nest. But when luck was poor both birds would seek the lake.
At such times the mother bird, larger and stronger than the male, would
fish along the shore, within sight and hearing of her little ones. The
male, meanwhile, would go sweeping down the lake to the trout pools at
the outlet, where the big chub lived, in search of better fishing
grounds. If the wind were strong, you would see a curious bit of sea
lore as he came back with his fish. He would never fly straight against
the wind, but tack back and forth, as if he had learned the trick from
watching the sailor fishermen of the coast beating back into harbor.
And, watching him through your glass, you would see that he always
carried his fish endwise and head first, so as to present the least
possible resistance to the breeze.

While the young were being fed, you were certain to