would
naturally suppose, but the little lovers of cascades knew what they were
about. Only the exterior of the thick, moss-covered walls were moist.
Within, the nest was dry and cosey. It was an oval structure, set in its
rocky cleft like a small oven, with an opening at the front. And there
in the doorway cuddled the two fledglings, looking out at the dripping
walls and the watery tumult, but kept warm and comfortable. I could not
resist touching them and caressing their little heads, considering it
quite an ornithological triumph for one day to find a pair of
water-ousels, discover a nest, and place my finger upon the crowns of
the nestlings.

Scores of tourists visited the famous falls every day, some of them
lingering long in the beautiful place, and yet the little ousels had
gone on with their nest-building and brood-rearing, undisturbed by human
spectators. I wondered whether many of the visitors noticed the birds,
and whether any one but myself had discovered their nest. Indeed, their
little ones were safe enough from human meddling, for one could not see
the nest without wading up the stream into the sphere of the flying
mists.

The natural home of _Cinclus mexicanus_ is the Rocky Mountains, to which
he is restricted, not being known anywhere else on this continent. He is
the only member of the dipper family in North America. There is one
species in South America, and another in Europe. He loves the mountain
stream, with its dashing rapids and cascades. Indeed, he will erect his
oven-like cottage nowhere else, and it must be a fall and not a mere
ripple or rapid. Then from this point as a centre--or, rather, the
middle point of a wavering line--he forages up and down the babbling,
meandering brook, feeding chiefly, if not wholly, on water insects.
Strange to say, he never leaves the streams, never makes excursions to
the country roundabout, never flies over a mountain ridge or divide to
reach another valley, but simply pursues the winding streams with a
fidelity that deserves praise for its very singleness of purpose. No
"landlubber" he. It is said by one writer that the dipper has never been
known to alight on a tree, preferring a rock or a piece of driftwood
beside the babbling stream; yet he has the digits and claws of the
passeres, among which he is placed systematically. He is indeed an
anomaly, though a very engaging one. Should he wish to go to another
canyon, he will simply follow the devious stream he