ater out of their feathers and sun themselves
before flying off. I never tired watching the little bathers on the
beach. One morning a pipit came tipping and tilting along the sand,
peeping in its wild, sad way. Another time a rosy-breasted linnet
stepped to the edge of the pond and dipped down daintily where the water
glistened in the sunshine, sending a delicate circle rippling off from
its own shadow. Then the handsome white and golden-crowned sparrows came
and bathed in adjoining pools. When one set of birds had flown off to
dry their feathers, others took their places. A pair of blackbirds
walked down the sand beach, but acted absurdly, as if they did not know
what to do in water--it was a wonder any of the birds did in dry
California! Two pieces of wood lay in the shallows, and the blackbirds
flew to them and began to promenade. The female tilted her tail as if
the sight of herself in the pond made her dizzy, but the male finally
edged down gingerly and took a dip or two with his bill, after which
both flew off.

On the mud flats on one side of the pond, bee-birds were busy
flycatching, perching on sticks near the ground and making short sallies
over the flat. Turtle doves flew swiftly past, and high over head hawks
and buzzards circled and let themselves be borne by the wind.

Swallows came to the pond to get mud for their nests. A long line of
them would light on the edge of the water, and then, as if afraid of
wetting their feet, would hold themselves up by fluttering their long
pointed wings. They would get a little mud, take a turn in the air, and
come back for more, to make enough to pay them for their long journeys
from their nests. Sometimes they would skim over the pond without
touching the surface at all, or merely dip in lightly for a drink in
passing; at others they would take a flying plunge with an audible
splash. Now and then great flocks of them could be seen circling around
high up against a background of clouds and blue sky.

One day I had a genuine excitement in seeing a snow-white egret perched
on a bush by the water. I rode home full of the beautiful sight, but
alas, my story was the signal for the ranchman's son to seize his gun
and rush after the bird. Fortunately he did not find him, although he
did shoot a green heron; but it was probably a short reprieve for the
poor hunted creature.

Canello was so afraid of miring in the soft ground that it was hard to
get him across some places tha