colors of the birds and
insects of the tropics, but certainly, the Kingfisher is an exception of
the highest kind. Alas, that he has no song to inspire the muse of some
English bard!

[Illustration: From col. Chi. Acad. Sciences.
EUROPEAN KINGFISHER.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.]

THE EUROPEAN KINGFISHER.

Little Folks:

I shouldn't have liked it one bit if my picture had been left out of
this beautiful book. My cousin, the American Kingfisher, had his in the
February number, and I find he had a good deal to say about himself in
his letter, too.

Fine feathers make fine birds, they say. Well, if that is true, I must
be a very fine bird, for surely my feathers are gay enough to please
anybody--_I_ think.

To see me in all my beauty, you must seek me in my native wood. I look
perfectly gorgeous there, flitting from tree to tree. Or maybe you would
rather see me sitting on a stump, gazing down into the clear pool which
looks like a mirror.

"Oh, what a vain bird!" you would say; "see him looking at himself in
the water;" when all the time I had my eye on a fine trout which I
intended to catch for my dinner.

Well, though I wear a brighter dress than my American cousin, our habits
are pretty much alike. I am sure he catches fish the same way I do--when
he is hungry.

With a hook and line, as you do?

Oh, no; with my bill, which is long, you observe, and made for that very
purpose. You should just see me catch a fish! Down I fly to a stump near
the brook, or to a limb of a tree which overhangs the water, and there I
sit as quiet as a mouse for quite a while.

Everything being so quiet, a fine speckled trout, or a school of
troutlets, play near the surface. Now is my chance! Down I swoop, and
up I come with a fish crosswise in my bill.

Back I go to my perch, toss the minnow into the air, and as it falls
catch it head first and swallow it whole. I tell you this because you
ought to know why I am called _Kingfisher_.

Do we swallow bones and all?

Yes, but we afterwards eject the bones, when we are resting or roosting
in our holes in the banks of the stream. That must be the reason people
who write about us say we build our nests of fish bones.

Sing?

Oh, no, we are not singing birds; but sometimes, when flying swiftly
through the air, we give a harsh cry that nobody but a bird understands.