scientific people; but there is no doubt
whatever of the fact,--see the authentic evidence of it in the
delightful little monograph of the bird published by the Carlisle
Naturalist's Society; but how the thing is done nobody but the ouzel
knows. Its strong little feet, indeed, have plenty of grip in them, but
cannot lay hold of smooth stones, and Mr. Gould himself does not solve
the problem. "Some assert that it is done by clinging to the pebbles
with its strong claws; others, by considerable exertion and a rapid
movement of the wings. Its silky plumage is impervious to wet; and
hence when the bird returns to the surface, the pearly drops which roll
off into the stream are the only evidence of its recent submersion. It
is, indeed, very interesting to observe _this pretty bird walk down a
stone, quietly descend into the water_, rise again perhaps at a
distance of several yards down the stream, and 'fly'[21] back to the
place it had just left, to perform the same maneuver the next minute,
the silence of the interval broken by its cheerful warbling song."

[21] "Wing its way" in the ornithological language. I shall take
leave usually to substitute the vulgar word 'fly,' for this
poetical phrase.

92. In which, you see, we have the reason for its being called
'water-blackbird,' being, I think, the only one of the dabchicks that
really sings. Some of the others, (sand-pipers) pipe; and others, the
stints, say 'stint' in a charming manner; but none of them _sing_
except the oiselle. Very singularly, the black-bodiced one seems to
like living near manufactories. "The specimen in the Norwich Museum,"
says Mr. Gould, "is the one mentioned by Mr. Lubbock, in 1845, as
'lately' shot at Hellesdon Mills; and two others are stated by the same
author to have been seen at different times by trustworthy observers at
Marlingford and Saxthorpe. Of more recent occurrence I may mention a
male in my own collection, which was brought to me in the flesh, having
been shot in November, 1855, whilst hovering over the river between the
foundry bridge and the ferry. It is not a little singular that a bird
so accustomed to the clear running streams of the north, and the quiet
haunts of the 'silent angler,' should be found, as in this case, almost
within the walls of the city, sporting over a river turbid and
discolored from the neighboring factories, and with the busy noise of
traffic on every side. About the same time that this bi