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BOOK 574.9797.H539 c.
HIGMAN # UNION BAY

LAURELHURST

^ ^ 'I

LAKE
WASHINGTON

MARSH

UNION BAY AND ENVIRONS

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2011 with funding from

LYRAS IS members and Sloan Foundation

http://www.archivo.org/details/unionbaylifeofciOOhigm

UNION BAY

The Life of a City Marsh

By the same authors
pilchuck: the life of a mountain

union bay

The Life of a City Marsh

By HARRY W. HIGMAN
and EARL J. LARRISON

Illustrated by Edmund J. Sawyer

University of Washington Press
Seattle • ig$i

H5^

Copyright, 1951, by Harry W. Higman and Earl J. Larrison

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

BY AMERICAN BOOK-KNICKERBOCKER PRESS, INC., NEW YORK

A cknowledgments

PERHAPS THE MOST INTERESTING AND CER-

tainly the most pleasing aspect of the preparation of this
book was the generous response which we received from
<<]; those whom we asked for assistance. Dr. George B. Rigg,
authority on bogs and marshes, checked parts of the manu-
script and supplied valuable information. Mr. and Mrs.
\ George A. Leis of the University canoehouse continually
^advised us of changes in the area. We express our thanks to
Dr. Erna Gunther, Executive Officer of the Department of
Anthropology, University of Washington; Dr. Victor B.
Scheffer, Biologist of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service;
Dr. Alexander B. Wetmore, Secretary of the Smithsonian
. Institution; Mrs. Martha R. Flahaut, Curator of Biology,
Washington State Museum; and Malcolm T. Jollie, Depart-
ment of Biological Sciences, University of Idaho. We have
benefitted from the experiences of other students of Union
Bay, especially Professor Elizabeth L. Curtis, University of
Washington; Dr. Robert C. Miller, Director of the California
Academy of Sciences; Warren Flock, Walter Hagenstein,
,-and the late Samuel F. Rathbun. J. Ronald Todd, of the
v; University of Washington Library, and Miss Ernestine

vi Acknowledgments

Brown, Willard O. Youngs, and Miss Wanda Z. Brockman of
the Seattle Public Library, and Miss Florence Waller, for-
merly of that institution, have aided our researches in the
literature. Finally we acknowledge our great indebtedness
to Mr. and Mrs. Carl S. English, Jr., botanists, for much in-
formation as well as a critical reading of the whole manu-
script; and to Robert B. Hitchman for his constant and
helpful criticism during the preparation of each chapter and
the final assembly.

To all of these and to many others whose names are not
mentioned we are truly grateful.

HARRY W. HIGMAN
EARL J. LARRISON

Contents

Introduction 1

1. The Marsh in Union Bay 5

2. How the Tule Wrens Acquired Summer Quarters 9

3. The Marsh Is a Hotel 20

4. The Tail Stopper 33

5. A Worms a Worm 48

6. The Bill of Fare 62

7. Shells on Union Bay 74

8. The White Pigeon 85

9. The Track Near the Marsh 98

10. Introducing Something New 110

11. Arrowhead, Squaw's Toes, and Other Things 124

12. The Henpecked Shorebird That Goes to Sea 139

13. Among the Guests Registered 152

vii

viii

Contents

14. A Firm Seat

163

15. How a New Water Witch Came to the Marsh

175

16. Teeters, Nods, and Bobs

187

17. How the Green Heron Wandered

197

18. Marsh Symphony

211

19. Quintet

222

20. Pigskins and Dowitchers

236

21. Sky Sweepers

250

22. Wild Fowl and Men

• 260

23. Who Killed Cock Robin?

276

24. Fog Is a Puzzlement

288

25. The Specialist Loses Control

302

UNION BAY
The Life of a City Marsh

Introduction

FOR SOME YEARS WE HAVE HAD THE OPPOR-

tunity to observe the life of a marsh, a spot not located in
some remote country area but near a well-populated district
in the city of Seattle. This marsh lies along the eastern por-
tion of the University of Washington campus and occupies a
part of pouch-shaped Union Bay. A ship canal passes through
the bay and connects Lake Washington, of which the bay is
a part, with the salt waters of Puget Sound, about five miles
away. Large locks have been constructed at Ballard, at the
western end of the canal. The bay area is a contrasting mix-
ture of fine residences, the University of Washington Ar-
boretum, the margin of the campus, and the marsh. This
contrast has furnished us with an excellent opportunity to
see how wild animals and plants could five in harmony with
their human neighbors.

We visited the area continually— an expression of our great
interest in the natural sciences. This Union Bay marsh was
the nearest place in the city where we could come in contact
with wildlife. Visits required so little time and preparation
that they could be made in the odd hours that we were able
to find each week.

2 Introduction

We found much to attract us. The presence of a football
stadium and athletic fields on the edge of the area brought
thousands of people to it. We watched the continual recon-
cilement of apparently unreconcilable things. We could look
in one direction and see the crowds and had only to turn in
another to glimpse newly arrived birds. We could hear the
honking cars which carried the noisy spectators from the
games, while close to us that brown-striped resident of the
cattails, the bittern, honked as it stood guard over its nesting
area. We began to understand how easily wildlife could
adapt itself to close association with man if man would only
cease his predation. We learned that the wild things would
lose much of their wildness if man's conduct did not' con-
stantly remind them that only by preserving their wildness
could they exist. We found that some wild creatures could
continue to carry on their normal lives with little friction,
while the lives of others were influenced by man to the point
of extinction.

For a long period it was the fashion to eliminate man from
the typical wildlife story. The animals which were described
lived their lives in their native habitats, unmolested and un-
influenced by people. But now, in the marsh, in the moun-
tains, on the pampas of South America, in the forests of
Canada, and in nearly all hitherto remote places, conditions
have changed. Men hunt everywhere. Other activities, such
as drainage, filling, tree-cutting, building— due to commerce
and agriculture— directly and sometimes devastatingly affect
wildlife. To leave man out of the consideration of wildlife is
to ignore one of the most important factors.

This book is primarily a description of the living aspects
of the marsh. If we touch on such subjects as anatomy, psy-
chology, and physiology, it is with the hope that such discus-
sion will serve to explain more fully the incidents about
which we write. We have endeavored to combine our labora-
tory experience, what we have gained from talks and lectures

Introduction 3

of specialists and, above all, what we have observed in the
field, to interpret the activity of the area.

In our previous book, Pilchuck: the Life of a Mountain,
we described the amazing orderliness which governed the
life and affairs of a mile-high mountain which stands at the
edge of the Cascade Range, thirty-three miles from Seattle.
In this story of a city marsh we have tried to emphasize what
we consider its most interesting aspect— the result of the
competition between man and wildlife.

We have visited this area for years. We have watched the
impact of nature on man and man on nature, and have
recorded our experiences so that those who are interested can
travel with us through this city marsh where wildlife exists
and goes its way within the sound of automobile traffic, and
near the many activities of a University, a ship canal, a com-
mercial district, and a community of homes.

For the sake of simplicity and clarity we have written the
book as the reporting of a single observer, an instructor in
biology. We have selected incidents such as the ordinary
persistent observer could see and describe for himself. The
conjectures and questions are those of the kind which would
be posed by the average visitor rather than by a scientist. The
incidents and records set forth are based on actual happen-
ings and have been carefully selected to give a picture of
this small but complex and fascinating area.

The Marsh in Union Bay

/♦ ONA SUMMERS DAY WHEN THE CAT-

tails have just passed their prime the marsh near my home is
purple with the blooming loosestrife. Beneath the surface
of the shallow water delicate foliage weaves and undulates
with every passing ripple. The white and gold of the water
lilies make a bold contrast to the dark green of the floating
pads. If the day is dull, the swamp waters appear oily black,
but when the sun is bright, the reflections of the great clouds
from the Pacific Ocean are so well mirrored that they seem
to float in the water below as well as in the sky above.

Not only does the area gleam with silent color, but also
it pulsates with life in its various phases— noisy, hungry,
angry, joyful, and adventurous. In the active part of the
seasons the change and the bustle astonish me. So many old
guests have gone, so many new ones have appeared, so
much activity is displayed by the visitors that I feel that I
am looking, not at a static home for a few permanent resi-
dents but at a place which furnishes food and shelter to
numerous transients.

It is a unique place, this marsh. Man, by building the ship
canal, lowered the water of the bay until its margins became

5

6 Union Bay

a series of exposed flats. Man is therefore responsible for the
marsh. If the present trend continues, man, by continual
filling, drainage, and building, will some day destroy it. In
the past few years the city has nibbled at corners and filled
low spots so that the acreage has been slowly but steadily
shrinking. People frequently visit it— to boat in the deeper
water, to fish, trap, or stroll where the firmness of the soil
permits.

The vegetation of the area has been self introduced. No
extensive plantings have been made. No landscape gardeners
have destroyed its naturalness. Only a few canals have been
dredged. They stand naked and bare for a year or two, but
then their banks are taken over by the vegetation and they
become a part of the marsh scene. No great influence of man
is apparent. Nevertheless, part of the area's uniqueness lies
in the government control exercised over it. For years, gov-
ernment engineers in charge of the locks have pushed but-
tons and thus controlled water levels which, unknown to
them, have decreed the nature of the marsh program:
whether the beggar's-ticks would grow here or there,
whether the change in depth would give a temporary ad-
vantage to the cattails or loosestrife in their constant battle
for territory, whether the shorebirds would find enough
exposed flats to justify their stopping on their fall migra-
tion, whether Gadwall Cove would be clear of, or clogged
with, plant growth.

My home is but five miles from the center of the city. I
can drive to the marsh in less than five minutes. My work is
at the University on the hill above the location, not quite a
third of a mile away. From the windows of many of the
campus buildings I can see the marsh, whose dark waters
are surrounded by browns or greens of the marsh vegetation,
according to season. The huge freight boats crawl through
the canal, looking as much out of place as a black bass might
look in a goldfish bowl. The open waters of Union Bay

8 Union Bay

carry the white sails of fast-moving pleasure boats. Power
boats often drag water skiers. Sometimes a tanker, airport
bound, moves along. It is a pleasing sight, seldom without
activity. There is nothing about it to indicate that wildlife
can be seen by those who are curious enough to look for it.

And yet the wildlife has managed to adjust itself to this
activity. There are few quiet days in the history of the place.
Each season has its guests which come at quite fixed times,
stay for definite periods, and are replaced by others when
they leave. Winter transients and regulars, spring migrants,
summer residents, fall visitors, and all-season guests provide
a constant and impressive change of population.

The life which one sees in this marsh is mostly bird life,
with now and then a beaver, a muskrat, a mink, or an otter
which has stopped for a few days while on its tour of the
streams. Just animal life? Yes, just animal life, but birds and
mammals as interesting as people so that, when I pick an
individual from among them as a radio announcer with a
"roving mike" might select a man from a crowd, I usually
unravel a story that holds every element of drama.

I have been visiting the area since a boy in high school,
so that now I know it as I know the neighborhood about my
house— the kind of neighbors, what they do, something of
when they come and go, and a little of the happiness and
difficulties which beset them. It is of these aspects of the
marsh which I propose to write.

How the Tule Wrens Acquired
Summer Quarters

TWO TULE WRENS, MORSELS OF BROWN

birds with long bills and saucy tails, flew about the mar-
gins of a little pool in the cattails of the marsh. They had
not casually drifted in. A definite urge had brought them;
they had come early to make proper reservations.

On the nearby hillsides of the University of Washington
campus, willows and alders had begun to leaf. In the stadium
a few rods from the marsh shore, athletes worked in their
light track outfits as they trained for their various specialties.
Girl and boy students walked hand in hand. Others stopped
to watch the first practice of the baseball squad. Every sunny
afternoon the manager of the canoehouse busied himself in
launching canoes for spring-struck classmen who wanted to
forget all school work and drift about and dream in the fresh
warmth. Yes, any observer could be quite sure that spring
had come to the uplands.

But winter had not yet loosened its grip on the marsh even
though the canoehouse manager, who was also the recorder
of all marsh activity, had seen the tree swallows, our first
spring migrants, over a month before. High and cold water
had held back all swamp vegetation except the horsetail,

9

10 Union Bay

whose green jointed stalks had sprung up in many sheltered
spots. No other new marsh growth had appeared. The whole
area lay lifeless, a mixture of what might be called "dis-
couraged shades of brown/'

Nevertheless, the tule wrens had arrived. I had waited for
them since the tree swallows began their seemingly hopeless
task of finding flying-insect food in the cold March breezes.
I had reasons for wanting to see the wrens. I had been read-
ing and hearing much about the definite ways in which birds
appropriated nesting locations and then stayed in the area
of their choice. They would hold it against all newcomers so
that when a mate arrived there would be shelter and food for
the nesting and the raising of the young. The subject so fas-
cinated me that I decided to investigate it myself. No birds
seemed more suitable for observation than the tule wrens:
they were plentiful, they nested close to the ground, and few
places could provide such easy access as the low-growth, tree-
less sections of the marsh.

Although I found tule wrens in many places in the area,
I was not satisfied until I came to the little pool among the
cattails. There were no cottonwoods or willows in the fore-
ground, and those which stood at some distance in the rear
would be an advantage rather. than a hindrance for they
would insure quiet water and, for my own comfort, freedom
from the worst of the spring winds. A bittern flushed as I
made my inspection, and it flew away croaking— stripes
plainly visible in the sun and the claws of its trailing feet
pointing upward. This bird, too, was concerned with the
problem of space for the season and I was quite sure that
it had already chosen a cattail-filled spot back from the
water. A song sparrow— small, cheerful, and friendly— flitted
about among the lower third of the cattail stalks. Then two
tule wrens, one on each side of the small cove, scolded me as
I paddled the canoe around. This was the exact place I had

How the Tule Wrens Acquired Summer Quarters

11

been looking for. Here was room with bath for each pair of
birds and its family to come, here was an opportunity to
watch squabbles and disputes over intermediate territory,
and here was a place for sheltered and unobstructed observa-
tion.

I began to make regular visits and found, as I had sus-
pected, that the two birds had already chosen their space
for the season, one on either side of the pool. Presumably,
the area which each had taken was of a size that would pro-
vide food for itself, its mate, and its future family. When I
appeared, the bittern would usually flush, which was quite a
sure sign that its nesting site would be nearby. Often I would
see it make a short circle and then drop quietly into that area.
The song sparrows continued their unconcerned and cheery
investigation of the lower sections. I watched the scene with
much interest but with a sense of queerness that I did not

12 Union Bay

place at first— then I understood it. It was the proximity to
civilization.

When I first thought of studying biology, I had pictured
scientific inquiries in connection with long treks into some
jungle with porters lugging my equipment and supplies. Now
I was studying wildlife, but where were the porters and the
wilderness? The subject didn't lack appeal, but where was
the romance in such a location? I was just a good golf shot
from the stadium, and close enough so that I could hear the
coaches bawling out the players in spring football practice,
and the profs calling "fore'' on the golf links. I could even
hear the crack of the bat when some fellow on the baseball
squad connected with a ball in batting practice. What was
exciting about such research? I voiced my thoughts to an
older friend of mine.

"Remember the old saying/'' he replied. "'Adventure is
where you find it.? If you work hard enough maybe someday
you may get to a place where a lion will bite out the seat
of your pants, so just be patient."

I learned much as I sat long and quietly in my canoe and
watched the birds. The wrens patrolled their territory con-
stantly as a policeman might cover his beat. They moved
from cattail to cattail, sometimes high and now and then at
water level, where the tangle must have appeared to them as
a windfelled forest appears to men. This lower strip was
claimed by the song sparrows who dashed at the wrens when
they came too close. But the sparrows seemed td recognize
the wrens' right to nest and feed in the upper part of the
cattails and did not molest them if they stayed there.

The birds selected certain high cattails in their areas for
singing points. As each wren moved from one to another post
in its reservation, it announced its presence by singing, not
light and sweet trills, but by forceful, bubbling, and harsh
notes which might be compared in quality to the rather ques-
tionable texture of a bathroom serenade. The song completed,

How the Tide Wrens Acquired Summer Quarters 13

it moved to the next point with such regularity that, although
it sometimes missed certain stations, I could anchor the canoe
at a likely place and be reasonably sure of having the bird
stop, sometimes within five feet of me, and sing on the cattail
I had selected. I thought that I could detect competition in
the singing of the two wrens, for the louder the one bird sang
the louder the other became, and if one appeared to concen-
trate on a phrase the other often repeated it. Obviously it was
serious business. Perhaps its quality and strength might be
of much importance in the securing of a mate.

Each bird put everything into the song, singing with its
head pointed to the sky, its long slender bill wide open, its
brown body shaking with the effort. The perky tail stood
erect or tipped forward toward the bird's back. Now and
then the wren would face a new direction and publish its
claim to the territory. Often one bird abruptly ceased sing-
ing, flew a few feet, searched for food, then as abruptly flew
to a high cattail and began again. Sometimes, even before
the females appeared and before regular nest work began,
a male would prowl around with a billful of cattail down as
if to say "Come along, old girl, I'm ready to start house
building." Most of the time they moved and sang, nervously
fed or pretended to feed, and then took a new station to
resume the performance. While they sang, the wind would
ruffle their soft feathers.

The movements of the birds appeared jerky and nervous
but always forceful. They were in a militant mood. Neither
of them ever considered a policy of appeasement when they
were engaged in territorial arguments. Each had definite
ideas as to its rightful leasehold and would fight to defend
it. Each moved about constantly with its claws clinging to a
cattail stalk or to the head and releasing a fine spray of cat-
tail down to be scattered by the wind. Invariably with the
movements came their burst of discordant but almost frenzied
song.

14 Union Bay

Every authority I read had agreed on the importance
which song played in the maintenance of territorial rights.
Most of them thought that it has two purposes— one to an-
nounce occupancy and to warn off competing males and the
other to inform the females of the presence of a lone bachelor.

As if to prove it a song ceased and one of the little five-
inch birds dashed toward the invisible boundaries of no
man's land— the other had advanced into disputed territory.
The attack was straight and vicious. The birds squeaked;
they mixed in a moment of savage battle; a soft feather
drifted away as they rolled and dropped in fierce grip; the
battlers disengaged and the victor pursued the vanquished
for a few yards. A moment's quiet followed, then both birds
sang, as if to indicate that, while there was to be no non-
sense about invasion, resentment ceased after the rules were
observed. Time and time again I watched the same little
drama. Every struggle ended with the repulse of the invad-
ing bird. But if the victor went too far in its pursuit and
entered the other bird's territory, then the pursued, as if
convinced of the justice of its position, would turn on the
erstwhile pursuer and drive it back into its own domain. I
thought that it demonstrated the strength that comes from
faith in one's cause, for I never saw an invaded bird lose its

fight.

The singing persisted, the birds watched each other from
opposite sides of the pool, and continued to defend their
location, with constant pugnacity. The days grew longer, the
water level lowered a little, the green of that aquatic plant—
the mare's-tail— appeared and was followed by the shoots of
cattails and the branching loosestrife. The reflections in the
still waters had been brown all winter but now they were
bright with the blue of the skies, the whites of the clouds,
and the greens of the rapidly growing vegetation. Nest build-
ing went on, for the females had drifted into the marsh and
the birds had begun to mate. I watched the nests appear all

How the Tule Wrens Acquired Summer Quarters 15

over the marsh. They were built usually in the upper third
of the cattails or loosestrife, and in places where two or three
strong upright stalks were close enough to permit lacing them
together to make a substantial framework. They never ap-
peared too securely fastened, but in the many years I in-
spected the marsh I never saw a wren nest out of place unless
the whole plant structure to which it was attached had been
undermined and brought low by storm. The nests were about
the size and shape of a coconut, with cattails as the main ma-
terial, lined with finer fiber and cattail down, and with a
small entrance in the side, usually near the top. They were
rather elaborate affairs for so small a bird to build, and I had
always thought the weaving must have required much poking
and pulling and careful work. It was two years ago that the
sight of actual building changed my mind. In this case I saw
one of the birds fly to a nest with one end of a long, narrow
strip of cattail in its bill. It did not hesitate but moved in and
out of the supports as a child might dance through shrubs
with a string or ribbon in its hands. In a fraction of a minute
it had placed the piece securely and had flown away for
more material. I found much difficulty in watching them
build for any length of time, for though they at first paid no
attention they became increasingly uneasy if I remained and
soon stopped work altogether. Some of the nests blended so
completely with the surroundings that the casual canoeist
would never see them, but a few, fashioned out of materials
bleached by the weather, were almost creamy tan and could
be seen from some distance.

When more wren nests appeared close to the original, it
did not mean, as one might think, that the birds had waived
their territorial rights. One nest would be the real one, and
the others were dummies, built by the same pair. Whether
this was done to confuse predators, or to satisfy the building
urge of the birds, or in the hope that additional females might
be attracted, I never discovered, although any of the reasons

16 Union Bay

might seem, to some people, to be a logical explanation of
this common practice of the wrens. One of the birds about
the pool stopped when three nests were completed, but the
other did not quit until four finished nests were closely
grouped in its territory. I had always understood that the
unoccupied nests were not lined with cattail down, but my
faith in that theory was shattered when I watched a bird
most of the afternoon as it carried and placed cattail down
in three nests. If any tule wren had reason to omit placing
down in its unfinished nests, it was this particular bird, a
resident of a narrow strip on the south side of the marsh, for
I found that it had constructed seven nests in its limited
territory. This exceeded by three the most I had seen up to
that time.

I timed the movements of one of the birds which lived on
the edge of the pool. While I was present, it made six rounds
of its territory, the longest trip requiring twelve minutes and
the shortest, ten. Its path was not always exactly the same.
Sometimes it flew close to the canoe and looked me over. It
lowered its tail at the end of every burst of song, and raised
it when singing was resumed. When I stood in the canoe, it
moved back in the cattails. When I sat down so that I was
almost concealed, it moved near enough to see me. Tempo-
rary bursts of curiosity often brought it very close. Now and
then I could touch the base of the cattail on which it perched.
But all of these short flights were but detours from the main
journey as were its occasional trips to the lone, nearby willow
where it nervously perched and sang. It made sallies against
any blackbird which alighted in the tree but without attack-
ing—just expressing its displeasure by an unusual burst of
song. The redwings, totally indifferent, moved only when
they so pleased. The wren seldom flew to the top of a cattail
stalk, but began singing about halfway up, after which it
moved slowly upward and finally stopped just under the
head or on the head itself.

How the Tide Wrens Acquired Summer Quarters 17

I wish that I might say something about the courtship of
the wrens, but I must confess, though I cannot understand
why, I have never seen any display connected with this most
important event. Nearly all birds employ significant and
sometimes very pretty mannerisms, and I am still hoping that
I will some spring see the way in which these tiny birds make
their courtship displays.

When the tempo of affairs about the nest slackened ap-
preciably, I knew that the eggs had been laid and brooding
had begun. During that time I saw only one bird at each
nest and it spent most of its time singing from the high cat-
tails. When the brooding period of less than two weeks was
over and I saw both birds flying to the nest with billfuls of
food, I knew that the family had arrived and the real work
had begun. The thin voices of the young could be heard. All
signs of family life appeared— as unmistakable as a clothesline
full of diapers and a back porch full of milk bottles.

The broods were large, five from one and six from the
other nest, but our wrens had little difficulty in finding food,
for the cattails and loosestrife were so full of insects and
grubs that feeding seemed only a matter of. transportation of
easily secured material, of trip after trip with loaded bill.
The comparative caution that marked the early stages of nest-
ing was abandoned. The birds flew directly to the opening,
entered without any preliminaries of approach, and reap-
peared almost instantly. The efforts of the adults never
abated; the appetite of the young appeared insatiable. Their
ability to consume this constant stream of food always
amazed me.

This hatching period is the most hazardous of the bird
life cycle. Many eggs are destroyed before hatching. Some
young birds never live long enough to leave the nest. The
nestlings are helpless. They face a multitude of dangers: the
attacks of lice, ants, snakes, birds, and mammals. Injury to
the parent birds often means the stoppage of food supplies.

18 Union Bay

But even though predation is heavy the tule wrens hold their
own, and I have seen no diminution during the many years
I have been visiting the area.

Human predators, too, did their share of damage. So harm-
ful was their meddling, even though innocent, that I would
never look at, or work around, a nest if people were near.
Failure to stop my work when a canoe went by once caused
the destruction of a nest and its seven young, for the people
came back after I left and out of sheer curiosity tore down
and opened it to see what had attracted my attention. I can
imagine their regret when they found it contained living
young birds, but there was nothing that xould be, done.
Humpty Dumpty could not be put together again and so the
nestlings perished. Our birds in the baylet were more fortu-
nate for their nests were not among those which the raiders
visited.

The season advanced. The quieter areas of water began
to be filled with vegetation. Baseball and track teams oc-
cupied the athletic fields and their spring schedule was well
on its way. The coxswains of the University crews rapped on
the sides of the shells and called for a faster beat. Picnickers
with baskets in their canoes left daily for various parts of the
lake. The two families of wrens stuck to their area through-
out all the activity. A second brood of young appeared and
successfully survived. The young ones flitted in and out of
their cattail forest. They picked, they scolded, they tried their
wings, and they uttered thin immature cries as they perched
and begged for more food from their overworked parents.
The older birds became almost silent. Occasionally I heard
bits of song but the enthusiasm and full repertoire had van-
ished. They did not occupy the cattail tops as in spring.
They watched me from the shelter of some tangle. Autumn
steadiness and wariness had replaced the carelessness of
spring rapture. I missed the enthusiasm and discord which
had so thoroughly filled the marsh.

How the Tide Wrens Acquired Summer Quarters 19

September came, the time for land and shorebirds to begin
to leave, and the season when the marsh welcomed the influx
of water birds. Already the mallards were scattered over the
bay and soon the baldpates would begin to raft in the open
water. One cold morning I nosed my canoe into the baylet. I
saw no wrens. My friends had left, the lease had expired, the
season for which the space had been reserved was over. From
now on, mallards, fat from feeding on the knee-high smart-
weed which they love, would flush when I entered. They
would be the fall guests of this part of the marsh. The stiff
regularity of the cattail and loosestrife growth which held
the wren nests would slump into a soft disorder.

I told the canoehouse manager that the wrens had left.

"Where do you suppose they head for?" he asked.

My answer was quick, but only because I had checked it
a few nights before.

"They go as far as Central America."

And that was the end of one lease in the marsh. Somewhere
in a similar area between Seattle and Guatemala, nobody
knows just where, will be the tule wrens, uttering their harsh
chur, moving about in the marsh growth, and as much at
home as when I watched them in their summer quarters in
the shadow of the football stadium in Seattle.

The Marsh Is a Hotel

THE COMING AND GOING OF THE TULE

wrens served to emphasize what I had long thought— the
marsh was not to be compared to a human village where the
Wilsons, Smiths, and Browns married, raised children, grew
old, and died, to be replaced by succeeding generations of
Wilsons, Smiths, and Browns. There was nothing so fixed and
static about this area.

Comparison of wild with human life not only is often un-
necessary but is frowned upon by scientists because it im-
putes conscious design to creatures considered incapable of
it. Of course the activities of the marsh cannot be exactly
compared to human activities. But there is sometimes a value
in superficial comparisons that not only entertain but bring
about a quicker and more intelligent understanding. When I
say that a marsh is a hotel, I do not imply the existence of
expensive structures to be used for that purpose nor do I
suggest that there is any kind of staff connected with it. But
it must be remembered that one definition of a hotel is this :
a place where transients may obtain food and shelter. If this
interpretation is accepted, our marsh is certainly a wildlife
hotel. It not only is adapted for the purpose but is constantly

20

The Marsh Is a Hotel

21

Spring (violet-crecn swallow,

RED-WINO)

Summer,

-=«-- (TftAlU FLVCATCHlfe,

- . VELLOW-THROM) l2'<-.^,v^/l /,

Autumn -^ -

(apEEN-WlN«E.I> TE/U-,. — <-.
4IUATER VELUPW-t-ECTS)

WINTER
LESSER icflup

H~C.^

used for it. Guests come and go. There are several different
classes. They appear at fairly definite dates and stay for quite
regular periods. The tule wrens belong to one class of regular
guests— birds which come to the marsh early each spring and
use its facilities for nesting and raising their families, and
when this is done return in late summer to the southern dis-
trict from which they have come. Other species come to the
marsh for this same purpose. And still others pass through in
migration, or casually, or because they are storm driven. I
venture the opinion that at least one hundred thousand birds
annually visit the area.

The registry of birds visiting this marsh hotel is quite as
definite and regular, I feel safe in saying, as that of any city
hotel. And of course when I say birds, I do not refer to
individuals, but kinds. There is no practical way of distin-
guishing individuals except by banding. For most of our

22 Union Bay

purposes there would be little advantage if we could distin-
guish the individuals. What I mean to say is this: the differ-
ent kinds of birds that visit the marsh do so regularly and
make stays that are almost as definite as the two-week res-
ervation which the Thompsons or Grays make at the resort
hotel where they spend their vacations.

To those who do not realize the definiteness of the sched-
ule on which nature operates, and who regard the presence
of wildlife in any area as accidental and meaningless, this
statement may appear of no particular concern, but it is of
such importance in understanding the true position of a
marsh community that I have gathered through more than
ten years a rather detailed record of the marsh calendar and
a register of the list of visitors which may reasonably be ex-
pected to drop in for an hour, a day, or an extended stay.

I have always regarded the marsh year as beginning on
March 1. The months of January and February were never a
rejuvenation as the start of a new period should be, but
rather a tapering off— a time when the wildlife thinned out
in numbers and species, a time when the marsh lay brown
and dormant and showed no signs of new growth. The bald-
pates, American mergansers (mergansers are called fish
ducks by hunters), scaups, and bufffeheads among the ducks,
and a few scattered species such as cormorants, coots, and
pied-billed grebes could be seen now and then on the bay,
but their numbers were small and they always seemed to me
much like the stragglers around a summer resort' who stayed
in late fall only because their apartments in town had not
been vacated by their summer tenants.

That was not my idea of the opening of the year in the
marsh. For me, it began logically when I saw the first tree
swallows, blue-green backed and white beneath, flying over
the bay. The earliest arrival date was February 21, the aver-
age March 1, and the latest March 15. They were the first
migrants and they brought promise of activity to come and

The Marsh Is a Hotel 23

the hope that, regardless of the rigors of the past winter,
spring would not be long delayed. Other birds would follow
in rapidly increasing numbers. But the influx of other spring
migrants was not immediate. The old saying that it takes
more than one swallow to make a summer still holds good,
for often many days elapsed before the next birds appeared.
There is an old belief that the swallows and other spring
migrants send out scouts to test conditions for the main body,
but it has never been substantiated. However, the first birds
often had a difficult time of it for the swallows of this area
are insect-eaters and take their food on the wing. Lack of
food frequently spells disaster for the aerial hunters. Some-
times we have had spells of bad spring weather for days at a
time when the low thermometer indicated that few insects
could be flying. Such weather always made me wonder how
the swallows could successfully withstand such conditions,
even though it has been reliably stated that tree swallows
will take berries if insect food is not available. I have seen
them hunting for insects even when sleet was falling, but I
have never seen them— and my friends say the same— either
eating berries or hovering about berry bushes as if preparing
to feed. Perhaps in our district the weather is not cold enough
to prevent the swallows from finding enough insects to pro-
long life. But prolonged storms certainly cause some fatali-
ties.

These conditions brought few birds to the marsh but in
the south many millions had become restless and excitable
and filled with the same urge that sent the first swallows
north. Every day thousands left their winter areas and began
their journeys, some to go only a short distance, others, hun-
dreds of miles, perhaps bound for places as far north as the
shores of Alaska. They traveled routes chosen by their spe-
cies, moving rapidly or slowly as is the custom of their
particular kind, and flying singly or in flocks of various sizes.

24 Union Bay

Among these birds were migrants which would pass over or
stop at the marsh for food and shelter.

From the standpoint of marsh population there had been
no increase in March. The gain caused by the arrival of a
few swallows and tule wrens, and of a few redwings which
displayed their red spots on their black plumage, had been
offset by the loss in water bird population. The bay was bare
of most of the ducks which had covered it during the winter.
Only a few mallards, the green-heads of the hunters, and an
occasional scaup, merganser, or bufflehead fed and flew about
the area.

Nevertheless, a marsh room clerk, had there been one,
could have scanned his registration list with some satisfac-
tion. For though the occupancy was almost the lowest of
the year, yet an active season was close at hand. I needed no
room clerk to tell me what I would see in April. I had records
of each of my trips to the marsh over a long period and in
addition had made a separate card for each species, entering
on it the various dates that I had seen it and when it had be-
gun and stopped singing. Many birds came, and in close
conformity to their previous schedule. I usually heard the
song of the yellow warbler first and saw it inspecting the
branches of a bare willow. Then another warbler, the yellow-
throat, with a black band through its eyes, sang from the
edge of the bank and flew back and forth over the cattails
where I would find it throughout the summer. Redwings con-
tinued to appear and began their musical o-ku-l'ee almost as
soon as they arrived. The marsh was now filled with tule
wrens whose enthusiastic desire for singing pervaded the
whole area. Strange and rarely seen birds came occasionally
—birds that were not previously listed on my records, birds
which I had not seen before in the area, and which I would
not see again for a long time. The canoehouse manager con-
tinually called my attention to new arrivals. They would stay
for a few hours, nearly all of them, and then they would be

The Marsh Is a Hotel 25

on their way again. Only a minute fraction of one per cent
would remain, as summer residents of the area, and to mate
and raise their young. All the rest were northward bound
except a few, such as the varied thrushes, which spent the
winter in the valleys and in spring flew to their nesting
grounds in the higher elevations of the mountains.

In these days when the word "millions" is mentioned so
often I thought it strange that little attention had been paid
by the public to this migration movement which involves
more than a billion living creatures. It is a remarkable exam-
ple of natural logistics— this moving and feeding and shelter-
ing of millions of birds. They must be provided with suitable
nesting grounds and returned safely to their winter quarters.
The operation involves four phases: the wintering; the trip
to the breeding grounds; the courtship, mating, and care of
the young; the return journey of the old and the young birds.

The operation must be precision-executed so that every
detail will come off on schedule. The nesting must not be
done so early that the young will hatch before suitable food
is available. It must not be done so late that the growth and
flight training cannot be completed before the fall storms.
The return limits are therefore quite inflexible, especially in
the districts farther north. Nothing can be left to individual
chance: each bird must be filled with a stimulus which will
give it the irresistible urge to leave the winter grounds and
to start at the proper time on the long journey to the place
where the courtship, mating, and reproduction are concen-
trated in one short season— a journey which, for a few birds,
involves the length of two continents. Many of the birds
which came to the marsh in this season wore breeding plum-
age, and the males, in particular, were brilliant and splendid
in gay colors acquired especially for the occasion. The black-
bellied plover made its spring passing in a formal black and
white, and the horned grebe, gray and inconspicuous at other
times of the year, appeared in rich and dark red plumage

26 Union Bay

and tan ear tufts which have given the bird its name. Even
the blue heron, which daily fished for frogs from a log near
the canoehouse, added some long white plumes to its somber
gray suit, a striking concession to the importance of courtship
apparel.

Certainly this spring migration and nesting ground period
was the most satisfying of the year's experiences for the
birds. Spring shooting was no longer a hazard now that pub-
lic opinion had banned it. The storms which came up, though
severe, were soon over. The days lengthened, the feeding
conditions improved, and the instinct that drove them toward
the nesting areas must have eliminated all sense of minor
discomforts.

There was little opportunity to observe these restless
travelers. If the water was high the shorebirds did not stop
at all for there was no food available. Birds came and went.
Sometimes I would see them alight in some section of the
marsh and then rise in a few minutes and be on their way
again. If I flushed them at other times of the year, they
usually flew to a different portion of the marsh but, in spring,
if they went into the air, they generally left the marsh en-
tirely. And so the migration went on, not easily discernible
except to one who watched it closely, with the marsh play-
ing an apparently insignificant' part until one realized that it
was only the united contributions of thousands of such areas
that made this enormous transportation task possible.

Rushes and cattails appeared and were now almost waist
high in the deeper water sections of the inlets. Yellow iris
bloomed, the carp began to spawn, the marsh colors sug-
gested the sweetness of late spring, and of the cottonwoods
and the growing herbs and shrubs. The elderberry bloomed.
Nest building had been completed by the tule wrens. The
migration tapered off in early June, the tree swallows having
led it and the nighthawks being the last arrivals.

After the middle of June, the marsh register dipped again

The Marsh Is a Hotel 27

as regarded new arrivals, but hatching boosted the popula-
tion considerably. I continually heard the thin notes of young
birds— blackbirds, tule wrens, grebes, killdeers, flycatchers,
and warblers. Insistent were their calls for food, and inde-
fatigable were the efforts of the parent birds to fill the gaping
mouths.

This marsh concentration on domesticity was temporary.
August had only begun when the canoehouse manager called
and said that the first returning migrants, the yellow-legs, had
arrived. He had heard their mellow voices. From then on,
previous experience told me that I could expect many guests.
I had long since realized that the resident birds were not
responsible for the activity of this wildlife hotel: they
amounted perhaps to fifteen per cent of the total registered
species, and, of course, to only a tiny fraction of one per cent
of the total number of visitors. If I continued my comparison
with a city hotel, I could say that the marsh had an extremely
satisfactory clientele which, instead of filling it for a two-
or three-month nesting season, spread the patronage over the
entire year in a regular spaced coming-and-going which
would have pleased any hotel man. From the standpoint of
an observer it simply meant that he would find it interesting
at any season of the year. I thought it particularly attractive
in late August and September. Then green- winged teal,
pintails fast and trim, wood ducks with their unsurpassed
greens, reds, and grays, and a few dingy coots replaced the
departing summer residents with a different but equally
active guest list. As the weeks went by the increasing ac-
celeration of departures was offset by the newcomers, and
soon the marsh had lost all of its summer residents except a
few mallards, bitterns, rails, and song sparrows which re-
mained to winter.

The date of arrival of the fall migrants varied some from
year to year but the order of arrival of the different species
remained surprisingly constant. I discovered that the green-

28 Union Bay

winged teal were always among the first to get here and that
small migrating shorebirds came soon after if the lake level
were low enough to expose the flats where they fed.

The returning birds and their young differed in many ways
from those I had seen in the spring. Their summer had been
filled with most of the things that can befall a bird. They
had paraded and displayed their finery on the breeding
grounds, had mated, built their nests, and tirelessly looked
after their young. They had been helpless against a predation
which had possibly taken half of their little brood. They had
trained the remainder in the ground ways of their kind, and
had prepared them for the return journey which must be
begun within a few weeks of their hatching.

When the black-bellied plovers had passed through in
spring, they showed the impatience of salesmen waiting for
the next bus, but on this return trip they fed, warily and at a
distance, for a week before weather conditions sent them
on the leisurely way again. If the birds had operated by the
clock in spring, they now seemed governed by the calendar.
Their appearance was different, too. The color of the plum-
age was more sober and its freshness dimmed. The formal
black and white of spring had been replaced by an incon-
spicuous gray which transformed the dandy into a colorless
and dowdy plebeian.

I watched these returning migrants with interest and, I
must confess, with some concern, for I knew the many haz-
ards of the remaining phase of their migration cycle. If all
went well they would complete their return trip without un-
due hardship, but many pages of records testified to the
dangers of these annual trips. I had seen ocean birds driven
far inland by storms and had found the bodies of many which
had perished, and I knew there was always the threat of
insufficient food supply, attacks by predator hawks and owls,
oil pollution, lead poisoning, caused by picking up shot in
gravel— a source of many fatalities in much-hunted areas

The Marsh Is a Hotel 29

where the pellets had accumulated for years. There was the
fatal attraction of powerful beacon lights. Widespread natu-
ral catastrophes killed many: I recall the classical examples
of the sleet storm which destroyed hundreds of thousands of
snow buntings and of the tremendous loss of passenger
pigeons in a prairie storm, a loss so great that it certainly
hastened the total disappearance of this bird from the Amer-
ican scene. And the wildfowl had the gantlet of man's de-
struction to run. But though the losses might be high I saw
no evidence of fear or nervousness among the birds in the
marsh.

Each fall I watched this arrival and departure of returning
migrants. It was only a microscopical section of what was in
effect an amazing transfer of whole wildlife populations for
some not-too-clear purpose. The birds came through singly
or in very small flocks instead of in the thousands that fol-
lowed the main fly ways. I speculated on the causes of this
annual movement and read the many attempts to answer,
none of which has been completely accepted. The most favor-
ably received idea attributes it to the necessity of leaving the
northern territory during the cold winters of the glacial age,
but that had been at least ten thousand years ago, and why
should the habit persist so strongly through the changed cli-
mate of centuries that it would still bring tiny western
sandpipers from northern South America to Alaska for the
purpose of mating and raising their young, a stay which
occupies only about a quarter of the calendar year? The
common tern nests as far north as British Columbia, then
winters as far south as the tip of South America. The tiny
rufous hummingbird plays about the marsh in summer and
is seen in Central America after migration.

Why such tremendous trips? Food is said to have been
an important factor when the ice advance had blocked off
much previously available land. Many hold the theory that
birds go south to the lush wintering spots only because their

30 Union Bay

favored northern habitats cannot support them at that time
of year. They return when these places are again fruitful.
Light is thought to have an important part in stimulating
migration— the birds undergo physiological changes due to
the lengthening days and finally set off as a result of that
stimulus. But this theory does not explain why birds migrate
north from south of the equator when the days in that local-
ity are shortening and not lengthening. Elaborate experi-
ments continually test the validity of the different theories.
The exponents of the light hypothesis have shown that a bird
detained beyond its usual time of migration loses the desire
to migrate, and that by placing a bird in artificial light and
increasing the amount each day the date of migration can be
hastened. Someday more may be known about the nature of
the causes which produce these tremendous effects.

In the fall and winter, the marsh register showed a con-
tinuous change in number and species of birds. The perma-
nent guests— a bittern or two, some Virginia rails, a few song
sparrows, some towhees, and usually a few pied-billed grebes
—were silent and unobtrusive, and only the gulls made their
presence known by crying loudly and fighting for the food
that one of them might discover. They spent much of their
time at the sanitary fill at the north end of the bay while the
other birds clung to the marsh margins where the lodged
cattails made pockets and tunnels which provided shelter.

It was not the season for upland birds, and the transients,
shorebirds excepted, confined themselves to the open waters
of the bay and channels. Ordinarily, the different species did
not mix indiscriminately, although there were times when I
saw canvasbacks, pintails, mallards, scaups, and coots spotted
among the baldpates like black sheep in a flock. Incoming
birds came to that portion of the marsh which they liked and
there they stayed. If there were mergansers I usually saw
the larger species near the log rafts or on one of the logs
from which they would slip when disturbed so they could

The Marsh Is a Hotel SI

launch themselves from a liquid instead of a solid base. The
dainty hooded mergansers, with heads patterned in black and
white, preferred the quietness of the channels. I would find
gadwalls in Gadwall Cove. The mallards dabbled and fed in
the shallow water along the marsh margins. It was a surpris-
ingly precise arrangement: each species following its own
desires, each portion of the marsh occupied and used by birds
which liked it— a bird for every habitat and a habitat for
every species— and usually a quite definite time for each
species to make its appearance in the marsh so that I easily
could have constructed a map showing the approximate loca-
tion of the different birds, and also a table indicating the
approximate period for which they would be there. Such a
schedule would be subject to changes but probably little
more than the unexpected cancellations and changes of
plans which would have upset the reservation records of a
city room clerk.

With the approach of winter certain species almost, or
completely, disappeared. For example, I noticed that the
red-breasted mergansers were fairly numerous in late Octo-
ber, but by the first of the year few were left and American
mergansers had come in. Scaups arrived late but stayed well
into spring. Wood ducks and pintails came early and were
seldom seen after the middle of October. The register
changed so that almost always when I made a new list I
would remove a bird that I had recorded on my last trip and
add a new one that had just come in. This made a constant
shifting which, though gradual, greatly changed the char-
acter of the list every few weeks.

January and February, the beginning of the calendar year,
closed the marsh year. The few birds that came in probably
were stragglers, or storm-driven waifs, and not part of the
regular marsh movement. On the other hand, the constant
shrinkage in numbers was a regular and expected part of
the schedule. Since the preceding February the area had

32 Union Bay

discharged all its functions as a wildlife hotel: the providing
of food and shelter for the marsh community itself, for the
permanent residents, the north- and south-bound migrants,
the summer-nesting birds, and the many casuals and storm-
driven visitors. The quiet of January and February was but
a prelude to the activity which would begin again in March.

The Tail Slapper

4

M ♦ THE CANOEHOUSE MANAGER PHONED

one April evening to tell me that lie had found my exposure
meter in the canoe I had been using. After dinner, I drove
down with the intention of returning immediately for I had
already experienced a pleasant day on the water and was a
bit tired and willing to rest and read. I stood and talked with
the manager and then found myself sitting down to enjoy
the quiet restfulness of the evening. I watched the canoes
come and go. The variation in skill of the paddlers interested
me. Some handled the canoes easily, while others indicated
by the clumsy way in which they embarked that the canoes
were almost never used by them. Before I knew it, darkness
had almost slipped in. The airplane beacons in the Cascades
had begun to flash and we saw them clearly on three peaks.
The power boats displayed their lights, and the highway was
bright with the gleam of passing cars.

The water was in shadow and we could just see the motion
of an animal as it crossed the bay.

"It's a beaver," said the manager. "A good many canoeists
have enjoyed them since the year we first saw them. They
are the big attraction of the marsh."

33

84 Union Bay

I could hear the faint splash of its dive, then all was quiet.
As I returned home I recalled the first appearance of the
beaver in the bay. I had never expected to see this animal
in a city area such as this. I had always thought of beavers
in terms of remote lakes and streams, where hardy trappers,
constantly menaced by hostile Indians, had undergone dan-
ger and hardship in search of the animals. I knew that a few
beavers, probably from somewhere high up on a mountain
stream, had been reported in certain parts of Lake Washing-
ton. But the thought that they would be seen in a city as
large as Seattle struck me as nearly impossible. Some years
passed before it was proved otherwise.

While I was following one of the canals in spring several
years back I had approached a newly fallen tree. It was not
an unusual sight, for the grounds force often removed one to
prevent crowding, to widen a path or road, or to improve the
view. But there was something about this tree which at-
tracted my attention. Neither axe nor saw had leveled it.
There was no mistaking the hourglass cut which had brought
it down. The eight-inch trunk of this cottonwood had been
cut at an even angle both from above and below, whereas,
had an axe been used, a long angle from above would have
met an almost square cut beneath. The sharp lines of good
axe work were missing, the cut showed the uneven marks
of teeth. I had not seen the animal which did it, but the
condition of the tree told me that a beaver had been in the
marsh, and that it might be there still, for the cut was new
and the leaves of the tree fresh and unwithered.

I knew quite a lot about the beaver. What resident who
was acquainted with the early history of the Northwest did
not? I had studied it in the laboratory and knew where, in
the scheme of things, science had placed this highly special-
ized animal. I knew its dental formula and how it could cut
down five- or six-inch trees in almost as many minutes. I had
seen it now and then on mountain streams and had run

The Tail Slapper

35

across old beaver dams in many places. The mere sight of
one would not have excited me, but I must confess that the
thought of the largest of our North American rodents visiting
our little marsh gave me pleasure. People, buildings, human
activity, and noise surrounded the area. Yet, on the bank
before me, was positive evidence that an animal feller-of-
trees had been working. It had stood near to where I sat in
my canoe and, balanced on its large webbed rear feet with
its tail as a third point of support, had used its chisel-like
teeth to bring down the tree. I looked to see if others had
been attacked but there were no signs. The woodcutter was
a new arrival.

Once, a quite similar species, the Old World beaver, could
have been found in large numbers in Europe, Great Britain,
and the colder regions of Asia, but everywhere they had

36 Union Bay

been closely trapped and now remained only in scattered
locations and in small numbers. Paleontologists had discov-
ered the fossil remains of an ancient beaver as large as a
bear. The smaller modern form had been known to the
Greeks, and Pliny, the Roman, had written about it. Once,
the American beaver could have been found over practically
all the wooded parts of the United States and almost to tree
limits in the mountains. In the early days of this continent's
settlement, furs were in demand everywhere and could find
a ready and profitable market. Beaver skins— smooth, silky,
warm, and enduring— were used for garments and hats.
When the white people came, their desire for furs was the
cause of sending out their own men and Indians as trappers
and killers of these peaceful creatures. The search for them,
which spread into the most remote districts, had much to do
with the discovery and settlement of the West. Many of the
men whose names rank high in the history of western ex-
ploration followed the trails of trappers and traders who,
alone or in small bands, had pursued, regardless of difficulty,
any route which would bring them to the lodges of beavers
or the wigwams of the native tribes who trapped them.

As I read the history of the Northwest I marveled at the
part played by the beaver. The Hudson's Bay Company,
greatly concerned with beaver -pelts, had maintained a sys-
tem of widespread establishments of various sizes in order
to keep in touch with ail geographic sources of supply. Its
greatest rival, the Northwest Fur Company, directed the
bulk of its energy to the same fur. Many Americans entered
the trade. A few made a success of it.

Never has the name of an animal been so honored. It was
given to the first steamship to operate on the Pacific Coast,
to several towns and cities, to rivers, creeks, lakes and ponds,
to waterfalls. The quarterly magazine of the Hudson's Bay
Company is called the Beaver, the annual fur sales of the
company have been held at Beaver House in Trinity Lane,

The Tail Slapper 37

and in Montreal was founded the famous Beaver Club, a
group of men in the fur trade whose initial requirement for
membership was that the applicant had wintered in the
Northwest. Oregon, in the early stages of its history, issued
coins bearing the picture of the fur bearer and called beaver
money. Indian folklore is full of stories in which the beaver
is represented as wise and powerful.

I visited the area about the fallen tree every time I was
in the marsh. Most frequently I went in the morning but
whenever possible I tried to arrive in the evening as I knew
the beavers were largely nocturnal and, in places where they
might be disturbed, seldom ventured out in the daylight.
Though I did not see them I took encouragement in the fact
that here and there I saw evidence of their work— a cut
sapling, a few branches floating in the water, or a section of
small log which obviously had been towed along the canal.
I usually left the canoehouse with rather high hopes, but
when I had passed the sailboats and cruisers in the canal,
and had been waved at by the passengers on the excursion
boat which daily ran between Lake Washington and Puget
Sound, I would begin to ask myself how I could expect to
see a native of the wild in such completely urban surround-
ings.

The more I looked for the animal the more it interested
me. This was the engineer that built dams across moving
streams and used the water thus impounded for its own
private lake where it would be safe from the attacks of most
predators and where it could easily transport its food to its
lodge. As a resident of a forest country I knew how much a
log pond saved a sawmill in the cost of handling its saw logs,
and I could see the great advantage which water transpor-
tation gave to animals that would otherwise have to tooth-
haul their food by sheer strength and over rough and often
hilly ground. This dam building was no occasional device
used by only the old and the wisest of the animals. In the

38 Union Bay

Rocky Mountains, I have seen whole valleys whose surfaces
have been leveled by the work of beavers. They have built
dams which have been silted up by the spring freshets, and
when they are useless the animals have built more, a con-
tinuing process which has resulted in the construction of flat
and fertile valley floors.

The threefold virtue of the dams— to provide protection,
log transport, and house sites— is quite evident. The deep
ponds enable them to build island homes where entrance
from below is always possible even when there is surface
ice. Easy towing of the floating wood is certain and the soft
ooze of the bottom makes possible the sinking and anchoring
of the winter feed, which is pushed into the ooze or covered
with mud or rocks as required. The beavers stay snug under
the frozen roofs of their lodges in winter and as secure from
the attacks of predators, except man, as it is possible for such
animals to be.

There is an island about three times as large as a tennis
court which was formed by the turn-around of the dredge
when making one of the channels of the Arboretum. I had
seen a green heron fly from the trees covering it and, as I
hoped it might be nesting there, I looked for it on every trip
that I made. I had just reached the turn one afternoon when
I heard a slight sound which, when checked, proved to be
made by a large mammal swimming toward shore. I knew
that it was much larger than a muskrat. Its head was shaped
wrong for an otter and it did not swim like one. 'The canoe
alarmed it and as it dived its broad tail slapped the water
with a noise as loud as could be made by the broad side of
a canoe paddle. The channel was narrow and the beaver did
not reappear but I did not care, for I knew that it had taken
up a more or less permanent abode and that I would see it
again. The island itself and the north shore offered many real
advantages and I hoped that the animal, or animals, would
remain in this altogether desirable spot where visitors on

The Tail Slapper 39

shore seldom came and the entrance of which was blocked
with enough aquatic vegetation to shut out most canoes.

I had always heard that aspens and willows were the fa-
vorite food of the beaver, so I expected they would be at-
tacked first. But apparently the reporting scientists had not
seen beavers exposed to silver poplars, for in this case their
diet preference was for poplars to the exclusion of all other
trees. When I came around in four days one of the trees was
down and half the branches had disappeared, which led me
to believe that there must be at least a pair of beavers to
make such progress. As it appeared quite probable that the
animals might confine their attention to this little island, I
checked and found that it contained a few willows and
twenty-seven silver poplars, eight or nine inches in diameter,
thirty to forty feet high, and as bushy and thrifty as could
be desired.

I would have liked to watch the beavers begin the con-
struction of a dam and lodge. I knew the water was deep
enough for the transportation of their food supply, and the
shore was high enough to permit construction of burrows.
It was a bank-beaver location. I wondered if the animals
showed any preference for bank sites. In such areas they
would be spread out to prevent easy trapping, while, in
lodges, the concentration was such that the early trappers,
once they found such a location, seldom left until they had
cleaned out the entire colony.

If the removal of island trees was any indication, the
marsh population of beavers (one to ?) prospered. Every
few days I noticed that a tree had been felled, cut up, and
pieces removed. Trees on the margins went first and soon
the place had a shorn look quite different from the comfort-
able roundness that had formerly covered it. Although I sel-
dom saw the animals, the disappearance of the trees and the
short troughs made by the hauled material plainly indicated
the speed and method of operation. My suspicion that they

40 Union Bay

had constructed a home in the canal bank opposite the north
end of the island was confirmed when a temporary lowering
of the lake revealed a couple of good-sized tunnels running
into the bank. I wondered if there were one or more pairs,
but, although I watched closely, I saw no young and never
more than one mature animal at a time. The rate of disap-
pearance of the trees made it certain that more than one
animal was present, so I always approached the spot with
the hope that I might see several together. As is common
with all mortals, my hopes increased with my accomplish-
ments. I wanted to see them at work, to watch them and
their young as they went about their daily life.

It was not because I thought I could add any information
to what was already known about the beavers. They had
become so tame in some protected areas that they often
worked in daylight where they could be studied by any
patient and interested person. Intimate details had been
learned: the myth that the tail was used as a trowel for
plastering had been disproved, and it had been discovered
that this heavy spatulate appendage found its principal em-
ployment as a rudder, as a support for the hind legs when
cutting went on, and as a signaling instrument when danger
appeared. Although it appears difficult to believe, it is re-
ported that the animals are able to submerge for periods up
to fifteen minutes. The trees are felled haphazardly and not,
as frequently said, laid down in a predetermined position as
would be done by a logger. The choosing of dam sites
showed so little skill that rebuilding at a more favorable lo-
cation was often necessary. Dams were seldom much over
five feet high and few, if any, reached the fifteen or twenty
feet reported by legend. Mud for the plastering of holes was
not carried in the mouth but in the clasped front legs. The
contents of the musk glands, once thought to be of great
medical value, had been discredited by research, and were
no longer used by reliable physicians.

The Tail Shipper 41

I saw only a few things to add to these detailed observa-
tions. The fact that the little grove of silver poplars was on
an island had given me an opportunity to watch the exact
speed with which a specific area was denuded, but it was a
matter of interest rather than scientific value because I could
only guess at the number of animals employed at the work.
I had read that the animals did not remove cut pieces over
five inches in diameter but either peeled them on the spot or
left them untouched. On the island the beavers left no pieces
even though some of them were eight inches or more in di-
ameter. It may have been because they were particularly
fond of this silver poplar, because food was not plentiful or
because these trees were so close to the water that no great
problem of overland transportation was involved. I had read
that the favorite food of the beaver was the heavy root stock
of the water lily, but in spite of its comparative abundance I
saw no indication that the plants had been raided or fed
upon to any extent by mammals.

I had visited the spot one or two times a week. The num-
ber of trees on the island steadily decreased until I began to
wonder what the animals would do when the supply was
exhausted. The cattails matured and the heads began to
burst and scatter their seed. The mallard young had grown
to be as large as the hens which raised them. At last only five
poplars remained in the center of the island. They had been
disappearing at the rate of a tree every six or seven days.
The fresh greenness of the island had vanished. Before, from
every side of the island, I saw leaves moving in the breeze
and showing their undersides so that the whole effect was
one of metallic whiteness. But the bare spots had been taken
over by nettles so that, if I landed, I wore an old raincoat
and a pair of leather gloves to avoid the unpleasant sting.
When I returned ten days later I found only one tree stand-
ing. The other four had been removed at a rate which far
exceeded the previous average. Could they have been har-

42 Union Bay

vested for winter use? Had the place been visited by another
group? I could find no place where the pieces might have
been placed in storage, nor did I find any floating logs in
the canals.

Contrary to my expectations, there was no great change
after the last of the silver poplars had been cut. I noticed
that willows had been removed in places along the canal but
not in quantities as impressive as the cutting on the island.
Whether some of the beavers had moved when the food
supply on the island gave out or whether they still remained
was something I could not determine. Some of them cer-
tainly remained, for now and then I heard the slap of a broad
tail and if I turned quickly I could watch the dive of the
animal I had disturbed.

Some years after the beavers had cropped the island I took
a winter walk which carried me past a section of marsh canal.
I had not inspected the area for some time because dumping
of dirt from basement excavations on the campus had blocked
the canal enough to prevent the passage of my canoe. The
place lay just outside the fence of the football stadium. As
I looked at the ice-covered channel and at the trees on the
other side my eyes were attracted to a heap of loosely piled
logs about six feet high and fifteen or twenty feet in diameter.
It could only be one thing, but it seemed impossible that this
pile could be what I thought it was. I looked at it closely
before making my decision. It was not a mass of miscellane-
ous pieces dropped there by a dredge: there was a regularity
in the piling and in the size of the pieces. Through my glasses
I inspected the way in which the ends of the pieces were
marked. There was no doubt about the structure. It was a
beaver lodge.

I had always been glad to see a beaver lodge in the moun-
tains, but I felt that I had received the ultimate from the
marsh when I looked at this dome-shaped pile of logs, mud,
and vegetation. I wondered whether there was a supply of

The Tail Slapper 43

food under the ice or whether there was an exit which led
to open water on the bay side. Near me were some cotton -
woods which had been protected by a three-foot band of
wire netting placed there by those in charge of the Univer-
sity grounds. Such protection was badly needed, for one,
poorly wrapped, had been attacked just above the netting,
and the tree lay on the ground. It told me two things— bea-
vers were still about, and they were not depending entirely
on stored supplies.

It had snowed the night before and there were no tracks
but mine. Toward the lake there was a short stretch where
I could see only smooth whiteness, the ice on the canal, and
the rough-covered dome of the beaver lodge. Under the
stimulus of such circumstances I had never been able to
concentrate on the present and ignore the past. I thought of
the many thousands of these lodges which had sheltered the
beavers from wild predators and the occasional raids of In-
dians who took them only for their own use. Food had been
plentiful, and there had been no competition for the trees
which they used for dams and lodging. The thousands of
colonies flourished. The invasion of the white race had
changed these things until finally the beaver had nearly dis-
appeared.

For years the beaver was considered as almost a vanished
animal. All talk about it was in terms of its past. But the
lodge in front of me slightly changed the picture. Was it
possible that the animal might make a comeback? Here was
a colony within a city block of a modern stadium. The absence
of trapping pressure had made them indifferent to man and
his civilization. If beavers could exist within half a mile of
district service and commercial clubs, was it illogical to
think that, in the future, the animals would again be seen
in large numbers? The thought had pleased me and, at the
same time, appeared possible.

Then I remembered the remarks of a professional mam-

44 Union Bay

malogist when we had discussed the beaver a year or so
before.

"The beaver is coming back without a doubt," he said.
"And it's going to be a regular headache."

"Why?" I asked.

"If there ever was a contradictory character among the
mammals, it's the beaver."

"For what reason?"

"Look at its record. It's like having a wonderful cook and
housekeeper who steals all the silver. It is one of the greatest
factors in the control of floods and the conservation of water
supply. It is a soil maker and a builder of farm lands. We just
can't get along without the beaver."

"What is the complaint, then?"

"There's another phase, the silver stealing."

"You aren't saying that it leads a double life?"

"It certainly does. As long as it stays where it belongs it
has a perfect record. But a species with its habit of wander-
ing and colonizing can move up and down a stream and stop
wherever it finds a good location. When it stops it begins to
change things. And the kind of changes it makes can cause
a lot of trouble in some spots."

"For example, what spots?"

"Around valuable lowland lumber regions, fruit trees, and
in well-developed residence districts along lakes and streams.
In such districts they have been known to cut down trees
that could not be replaced for several hundred dollars. They
keep railroad maintenance crews busy by damming small
culverts and bridges in some locations."

I had thought little about it at the time, but after watching
the island in the Arboretum, I now realized that the rapid
increase in beavers would make a real problem for conserva-
tionists and game managers. The mammalogist had been
right. Men will make the sacrifices necessary to get along
with many creatures and will not begrudge a reasonable

The Tail Slapper 45

share of the cherries to the robin, a few fish to the king-
fishers, and some young pea plants to the pheasants. But
these demands are as nothing to those of the beaver. The
robins ask for part of the fruit of one tree, but the beaver
asks, not for a little fruit nor for any particular part that can
be removed from the tree without injury, but, in effect, for
the whole tree, for many trees— and, as my marsh experience
showed, sometimes they take the whole grove. Often these
groves represent much of the lifework and wealth of the own-
ers. The silver poplars in the Arboretum had been carefully
planted and nurtured. The grove was a lovely thing. Would
tree lovers be willing to continue to donate such clumps for
a half-year's support of a colony of beavers?

The beaver, like the wolf, was unlucky enough to run
smack into man's dollar. Its demands were too great to jus-
tify its existence within many densely populated districts.
It must have food and since this food was largely parts of
trees obtained only by the destruction of the tree, it was
obvious that it would not be tolerated in cerain areas. In a
place like the marsh and in small groves, trees could be pro-
tected by putting a wire screen around the base, an inex-
pensive and simple operation. This is not practical in large
areas because of the expense and patrolling required. Neither
is it any answer to the problem of retaining the beaver in
the locality, for if every tree within its reach is protected so
that it cannot be cut, it will hardly be possible for the beaver
to continue to exist. The problem has already risen in the
state of Washington, where beavers have attacked orchards,
valuable shade trees, and where they have constructed dams
which caused flooding. To date, the difficulty has been met
usually by the transportation of trapped animals from places
where they are not welcome to places where they are needed,
but in some cases it has been found necessary to trap and
pelt the animals.

As I walk or canoe about the marsh I realize that the bea-

46 Union Bay

vers are facing almost insurmountable obstacles. Although
nearly everybody likes them, nobody is willing to pay the
price for their support. The desirable trees near the water
are netted, the less-favored ones are disappearing. Many of
the trees in nearby residence districts are being protected.
It is quite unlikely that the available trees will support more
than a few pairs of these animals, yet if a pair is around they
will multiply.

Under that harsh unwritten human law which says that
the existence of the so-called lower animals must be subor-
dinated entirely to the needs and wishes of man, there seems
to be only two means of tolerating the increasing beaver
supply. One is their limitation to the back country where
they can do no damage and where conditions favor them.
The other lies in the possibility that they will modify their
diet and get away from the shadow of the dollar by relying
completely on the waste products which it is said they now
eat when trees are unobtainable. I had always considered
such diet flexibility extremely improbable until Nature Mag-
azine recently published an article in which the well-known
biologist, Dr. Victor B. Scheffer of the United States Fish
and Wildlife Service, expresses the opinion that in the semi-
arid conditions of eastern Oregon ". . . the animals [beavers]
will, if necessary, exist comfortably on a diet of aquatic
grasses and willows."

Important as this observation is, it is overshadowed by the
statement: "The beavers soon establish a condition of 'sus-
tained yield/ the goal of the professional forester." In elabo-
rating, he says :

Judging from observations, a colony of beavers may establish such a
relationship with the willow vegetation that as fast as the bushes are
consumed or destroyed, a like amount of new vegetation grows up to
replace the loss. While no one would seriously suggest that the
beaver "plans" the sustained yield program, the end result is the same.

The Tail Slapper 47

It is a cheering conclusion and one which it is hoped that
the future will confirm. To feel that not only will the beaver
be able to get along in certain places without depending
upon valuable trees, but that it will actually set up condi-
tions which will produce a continuance of supply of the
products upon which it can subsist, is to help to provide a
solution to a problem which has heretofore seemed almost
unsolvable.

A Worm's a Worm

5

— /♦ THE MONTH OF MAY FAIRLY RUSHED

in. In the Cascade Range the snow line which had moved far
down the mountain sides during the winter now crept dispir-
itedly back toward the summits. In the marsh, warm days
stimulated the tempo of living things so that the foliage
opened, the buds burst, and the birds sang continually. Stroll-
ers discarded coats and appeared in shorts. Tennis players
stripped to running pants and prepared to take on a tan.
Boats congregated in Canoehouse Bay. The freshness and
sunshine so effectually beckoned to the fishermen that I
knew wherever I paddled I would see them in boats or on
shore.

During this spring rush, in order to avoid the confusion,
I usually got out of the inlet before the fishing craft ap-
peared, and especially before the University canoe classes
filled the float with a score of canoes and twice as many girls.
They were invariably a little late and all tried to get their
canoes into the water at once. But on that particular morn-
ing the small bay held many boats, each carrying one or two
fishermen who concentrated on the serious job of watching
rods and lines. The anglers talked but little although they

48

A Worms a Worm

49

**& *

had moored close to each other. The canoehouse manager
had fished before the crowd arrived, and when I got there he
was standing near the outside water tap with a nice catch
of perch and crappies neatly spread out on a white cloth.
They had all the beauty of new-caught fish, the blue on the
crappie gills still undimmed and the scales of the perch
standing clearly and brightly in the morning light.

"Are they getting many?" I asked. As a noncompetitor I
could ask questions which would be truthfully answered.

"Some are and some aren't."

"I wonder why."

"Just like everything else. Some people don't seem to have
any trouble. Others can't make it even if they borrow the
other fellow's rod, boat, and bait can." He laid a fish on its
side on a short piece of plank and fastened it lightly with
small nails through the head and tail. "It's funny about fish-

50 Union Bay

ing. A worm's a worm and a hook's a hook but some fellows
can do ten times as well as others with the same outfit and
bait. Somebody else will have to explain why."

He picked up a fish scaler of his own making, a ten-inch
strip of wood fashioned into a handle at one end, with three
beer bottle caps attached in the form of a small triangle at
the other. He scaled the fish rapidly, the rough edges of the
caps removing the scales with remarkable efficiency, the nails
holding the fish firmly in place. As soon as the fish was
smooth and the belly cut made, the nails were pulled and
another fastened.

I remembered the ordeal of cleaning scaly fish when I was
a boy. They were slippery and we tried to hold them with
our hands and scale them with a kitchen knife, a job so un-
pleasant and difficult that only the prospect of the delicious
meal to come would keep us on the job. I thought, you can't
tell a real sportsman by just watching him handle a rod or
gun; there is a lot more to it than that. There is the way he
prepares his fish or game, handles his pack, fixes up his food
list, picks his camp site, and meets bad weather conditions.
Everything that I had seen this man do showed that he was
an expert in the field.

A commotion in one of the boats made us look up. An old
fellow, comfortably leaning against a chair back bolted to
the seat, had just caught and netted a nice fish.

"There's a fine one," my companion said. "That old boy
has them all beat. His fish will weigh a pound and a half.
Look at the other boats crowd over to where he is. They act
as if there is a well under his boat and all the fish in the lake
are in it. But I guess if business is good you can't keep out
competition." He finished scaling the last fish and rapidly
cleaned them. Then he got out a canoe for me.

The sun was now high enough to warm things consider-
ably. A surface haze caused distortion which made the coots
and pied-billed grebes look as if they were swimming six or

A Worm's a Worm 51

eight inches above the water. Even the ferry crossing the
lake had the appearance of riding on a platform a few feet
in the air. Not a cloud was to be seen, not a ripple in the
water, but perfect visibility above the low layer of haze, so
that much of the Cascade range and snow-covered Rainier
and Glacier Peak were all included in the panorama which
rimmed the horizon.

Usually I had one or two special things planned for the
day— some flowers to examine, a nest to search for, or a
newly arrived bird to check. But today was free, so I decided
to make the grand tour of the bay, which included the cir-
cuit of the west side and the newly excavated canal which
ran close to the much-traveled highway. Then the passage
along the residence district on the north side where garden-
ers whistled as they manicured the fine lawns and gardens,
past the tiny lighthouse, and over the open water which
marked the joining of the bay and lake. Next I would scan
the log rafts which floated at anchor for a quarter of a mile
on the south side, after which I would direct my canoe
through the channels in the Arboretum, and back to the
canoehouse— a quiet and peaceful trip of about five miles. I
did not anticipate seeing much wildlife on so bright and still
a day. But there were more fishermen than usual. Why not
forget the birds and mammals and see what the anglers were
catching and how they were doing it?

Not that it was much of an area for fishing. But plenty of
people visited it, nevertheless. Few were lucky. They were
the ones who had a feeling for, and a knowledge of, fishing.
But, whether lucky or unlucky, many came often, perhaps
with the hope that the next trip would see a turn for the
better. The attraction of certain locations for fishermen has
always impressed me. That day it recalled the men whom
De Maupassant described in his story, "A Fishing Excursion."
The two Frenchmen had often fished together before the
Franco-Prussian war and, when they accidentally met during

52 Union Bay

the struggle, the memories of the many trips to the favorite
fishing spot made them decide to return even though the
advancing Germans were close to the stream. They reached
the place, fished with great success, but were picked up by
an advance guard and taken to headquarters. The German
officer who questioned them was not convinced that the
men had come for fishing, and he ordered them to be exe-
cuted as spies. They were shot almost immediately, after
which the fish were turned over to the German cook to be
prepared for the evening meal. Perhaps some enthusiasts
would say that it was not too exorbitant a price for a perfect
day of fishing.

The first part of the day's trip took me along the canal just
back of the stadium, a place much frequented by boys be-
cause it was easily reached by bicycle or foot. I paddled
easily, looking at the knee-high stumps of the trees which
had been removed by beavers, watching the water run down
my paddles to form little rings as the drops struck the placid
water, listening to the song of the russet-hacked thrush in
the deep undergrowth. The fresh scent of the cottonwoods
was as unmistakable as the odor of lavender when a bureau
drawer is opened. Then I saw a bareheaded boy of about ten
coming slowly down the slope from the golf course, picking
his way so that his legs would not be scratched by blackberry
vines. He crossed the road, looked around as he stood on the
canal bank, and uttered a cry that made me force my canoe
to the place where he was standing.

"What's up?" I called. "Hurt yourself?"

"The pole," he cried. "My father's fishpole."

"What about it?"

"It's gone. My dad's pole. I stuck it on a stick on the bank
and went up to watch them play golf. It cost twelve dollars
and forty cents and now it's gone, all of it." The tears flowed
freely.

"Perhaps a fish pulled it into the water."

A Worm's a Worm 53

"Somebody took it 'cause the wooden case is gone too.
Gosh, oh gosh." He had slumped to a stricken man of sixty.

"Maybe, if you wait around, somebody will bring it back."

"No use at all," he sobbed. "Anybody who would take a
twelve dollar and forty cent pole would never come back.
What will my dad say? He didn't want me to take it in the
first place." I watched his bent figure until it disappeared
behind the athletic pavilion.

But it was not all to be tragedy. I encountered another
fishing party near the crew house. A young mother in a blue
"clam-digger" outfit had brought her two children, a brown
hatless boy about six and a plump little brunette of four, on
an adventure into the wild. A lunch basket stood nearby. All
three sat on an old bulkhead, legs hanging over the edge,
neatly peeled willow poles in hand, and eager eyes intent
upon the bobbing corks. The little girl called to me:

"We're fishing," she said, "and we're catching fish." She
pointed to water-filled jars with bullheads swimming in them.

"We have seven," said the mother. "I caught one, but each
of the children has three." The children looked happy and
important as she said it.

"Are you going to take them home?" I asked.

"Oh, no. We've decided to let the fish see how it is up
here on the shore and then we'll put them back."

The canoe was soon out of the canal and in open water
along the margin of the islands which had been formed when
the inside channel had been dredged. Two men were casting
bits of red cloth toward the edge of the cattails. I pulled a
little closer.

"Do you mind my watching?" I asked.

A bass voice came from an enormous man in a red shirt:

"It's O.K. There's no lawT to stop you even if we wanted to
—and we don't."

The other man, Nordic in appearance and imposing in a
new blue-checked jumper said:

54 Union Bay

"This kind of fishing shows that it don't pay to lose your
temper/'

"What do you mean?"

"These bullfrogs want to run the whole show. They jump
at everything around their bailiwick. We like them to feel
that way about the red flannel on our hooks."

There was a movement in the water, a splash toward one
of the red lures, a struggle, and then redshirt pulled out an
enormous frog whose yellow throat proved it to be a male.

Bluechecks smiled.

"I like to catch things whose meanness is the cause of be-
ing caught. And it's fine to eat their legs afterwards. .Noth-
ing's better."

The men told me that they fished every late spring for
frogs and then fished for bass in summer. Frog fishing was
easy if you knew how but not many people went after them.
They thought they liked it because it took them back to the
time when they were boys and had fished for bullfrogs in
Indiana. I waited until they had pulled in another struggling
victim and then moved along.

The next stretch of the grand tour was shallow, and from
a fishing standpoint, unproductive. But the trip was not un-
pleasant. I watched the tule wrens carrying food to their
nests, heard the singing of the blackbirds, and saw them
mob a heron which had been careless enough to fly over
their nesting territory. They hovered over the bird and
struck at it viciously. I could look down in the water and see
the aquatic growth, just beginning now, but which later
would block the area in places. Then I passed the curried
and polished part of the bay, with large houses in the back-
ground, lawns running down to the water, and piers and
power boats. There was little here to remind me of the marsh
other than the mallards which had been fed so regularlv that
they depended almost entirely on handouts. The shrubbery
was full of singing warblers, flycatchers, and fat robins, and

A Worms a Worm 55

out near the very point I saw a flicker which was drumming
loudly on a dying tree.

I crossed the bay to the east end of the log boom where
many surplus logs were held until required by the mills. Tied
to the peak of the boom lay a trim motorboat about twenty
feet long, decked in the bow to make it seaworthy on the
Sound or in the much rougher water of the Strait of Juan
de Fuca. A fish pole projected from the stern. The occupant,
a strong-featured and powerful young fellow, occupied him-
self in changing some tackle. I had no intention of stopping
but he waved and I accepted his invitation to come over. A
brown spaniel dog in the cockpit wagged its tail in friendly
fashion.

"Catching anything?" the man asked.

Tm just sight-seeing, and have no tackle with me." I
looked at the lure he was attaching— a five-inch strip of some
sort of composition material, shaped so that it would skitter
in the water, and highly colored. It glittered in the light.
"What do you call that? I thought I was up on most baits
but that's a new one to me."

"I can understand that," he said. "Because I made it my-
self. You probably know most of these." He opened his tackle
box and showed me a tray of assorted gadgets, many of
which I never knew existed. Short ones and long ones, of
every color and shape, and of queer designs.

"These are all bass lures," he said. "Some of them are good
but I never found one that was the killer that this one of
mine is. You're a fisherman and know what I mean. The bait
you use is a whole lot a matter of sentiment, and when you
make one to your own liking you think it's better than any-
thing else. Probably nobody else would use it at all."

He was the first westerner I had met who preferred bass to
salmon fishing. I asked him why.

"Too much gear in salmon fishing. You have enough on
your line to drown a fish. Bass fishing is a battle of man and

56 Union Bay

fish without handicapping the fish when it is hooked. A light
rod, a clean cast, and a big bass on the line strikes me as top-
ping any other kind of sport."

I pointed to a thermometer in his tackle box. "Do you
carry that for any special purpose?"

"Yes, sir. It's no good at this time of year but it's my fish-
ing guide in cold weather. I've found out that you can't catch
smallmouth bass around here if the water temperature is
below forty-five degrees. If it gets below forty the bigmouths
quit, too. I figure they get kind of dormant in the colder
water and so I save myself lots of fooling around."

"This is a swell boat." I said. "Local built?"

"I built it in my back yard."

"Your own design?"

"Only in a way. I took what I thought were the best points
of two or three craft and combined them. This is the result."

He told me how carefully he had selected his material,
how he had bought most of his fittings at surplus stores, and
if he found them too expensive had made them himself. He
had rebuilt a second-hand marine engine. The result of the
economies was a boat at half the price he would have had
to pay on the market.

"I got my money back in less than two seasons," he said,
"from the savings in boat rental's and auto expenses, and on
ferry trips I used to take when I went after salmon. Now I
stay close to home, and by figuring the best kind of gear and
knowing just where to find the fish I make out all right. I got
this one just before I tied up to the boom." He showed me a
big-mouthed bass that would weigh about three pounds.

The man interested me. The aptitudes he applied to his
fishing should tell me something about the nature of his
work. He was a strange combination, this man who had the
ability to overhaul an old engine, to make his own fittings,
and to design and build his boat. I had seen many good fish-
ermen, among them the best of dry-fly casters, but I had

A Warms a Worm 57

never seen a scientific fisherman who used thermometers as
a fishing guide, who tested every kind of lure and made some
of his own, and who constantly studied the movements of the
fish for which he fished. I had never before seen a fisherman
who kept his boat in the perfect shape you would expect to
find only on a navy craft. What was his profession? I thought
I knew and was anxious to confirm my opinion.

As I said good-by and released my hold on his boat, I
asked, "By the way, what is your business?"

The answer was as I expected. "I'm in the engineering de-
partment down at Boeing's."

I ate my lunch as a light breeze drifted the canoe past the
big apartments at the south end of the entrance into the bay.
Between bites of beef sandwiches and an apple I rounded
the log boom and followed the water between the boom and
the shore. The ducks and other waterfowl which were al-
ways plentiful in winter were now on their breeding grounds
and the place was almost deserted. A large heron stood mo-
tionless on the logs, a couple of crows hopped back and forth
and examined the bark for worms and insects. A coot, or mud
hen, moved hurriedly into the marsh growth. Most of its
kind had left but it was one of the few that had remained to
nest. It would not be many days before I would see the
young near the cattails where the old birds would be feed-
ing them with a fine weed which they had dived to obtain.
The young would be reddish and nothing like the sober
parents which were almost entirely black.

I did not see fishermen again until I had gone through
Gadwall Cove and into the channels of the Arboretum.
There, as I expected, I found a dozen or more Negroes sit-
ting comfortably on the bank, all still-fishing with poles
resting in the fork of a stick and with their floats high in the
water. I thought that I could learn much from the serenity
of these people for I had always been a fly fisherman and a
troller because I could not enjoy inaction. Here there was no

58 Union Bay

premium on activity; there was no continual hauling out of
lines to examine and renew bait. There was no movement
from one spot to another in an effort to find a better loca-
tion. They had selected their niche for the day; they had
come to relax and enjoy themselves. Their method was to
let the fish come to where the bait had been placed. They
did not propose to run around and hunt the fish. If the whole
day passed without the bobber frantically indicating the
presence of a bait-sampler, why worry? There was the pleas-
ant bank to sit upon, the warmth of the sun to give them
perfect comfort, other fishermen to joke with, a basket of
lunch, a cigarette or pipe, and plenty of tobacco. .If one
caught a fish, all watched and enjoyed it. They kept their
eyes on their floats and between times looked at the sky and
the birds and the smoke from their tobacco. They watched
me from the time I came from under the little bridge until
I left. Their faces were impassive and they did not speak
until I first spoke to them, and then their faces lighted up
and they quipped about the day, my canoe, my binoculars,
and the folly of pushing a paddle when a small investment
in an outboard engine and a few cents worth of gasoline
would enable me to rest and enjoy life.

Just before the bank flattened out and the area became
marshy, I approached a couple I had never seen before. The
man, quite tall but a little stooped, wore army khaki trousers
and a dark sport shirt. An old panama hat completed his
costume. The open shelves of his spreading-type tackle box
contained an assortment of gadgets so varied that it com-
pletely eclipsed the collection owned by the man I had met
out by the log boom. Spoons, flashers, hook extractors, flies,
leaders, and the like filled every compartment. His pole was
split bamboo, closely wrapped, and the line which ran
through the agate guides was an expensive one. The float
had evidently been hand painted for, like the banner of the

A Worms a Worm 59

ancient knight, it bore a strange device— I thought it was a
corkscrew spiral with dots between.

The wife was cleanly but plainly dressed in a brown one-
piece affair. She was a large, very dark woman whose face in
repose expressed the strength and character that might come
from a life which had not been too easy. But when I spoke
to them and they answered, she smiled with an expression
showing that, for her, life still held a lot of enjoyment. Her
firm hands grasped a long willow pole from which hung a
line and float which, unlike any others I had seen along the
canal, was bobbing violently. She set the hook with a quick
movement of the wrist and then drew a good-sized perch
from the water. The man looked at his own bobber but said
nothing.

"You got yourself a good one," I said.

"It's my lucky day," she replied. "I came down without
aiming to fish. I cut a pole just to pass the time."

"You enjoy it?"

"It's just a pastime. My husband's the one who likes to fish.
He's an expert."

My canoe was almost past when she smiled again and
said:

"He got three so far, I got eight."

Fishermen seldom stopped in the marshy strip between
this point and the bay. I was warm and thirsty and was glad
to get out in the open where I could take advantage of the
light but constantly strengthening breeze. Flatties and star-
boats had begun to appear; they were slowly making for the
lake and the stronger winds which would come, up a little
later. A little puff of wind would send them along for a few
yards and then the boats would drift until another puff came.

I thought that the day's fishing was over, but just be-
fore I reached the entrance to Canoehouse Bay I recognized
two men who were casting plugs from a very short square-
built boat. They were young Japanese, from their clothing

60 Union Bay

evidently ex-G.I.'s. I had seen them infrequently in the area.
They nodded in friendly fashion when I came nearer and
continued their casting, swinging their short rods with an
easy motion which made the reel spin. evenly and sent the
plug out the proper distance where it stopped and then
dropped within a yard of the rushes or cattails.

I considered the fishing methods I had seen during the
day: the huddled search for the legal limit near the canoe-
house, the bullhead catch of the young mother and her chil-
dren, the case of the irritated bullfrogs, the scientific analysis
of the temperature and bass preferences, the relaxation, and
the easy attitude of the little group near the Arboretum.
How different they were from the systematic and chess-like
approach I was now observing, a method which had almost
been brought to a science on a formula like this: bass which
are feeding near the rushes always attack a splashing and
moving bait; to take bass it is only necessary to continually
drop a properly handled plug in the right place; percentage
will take care of the rest.

Whether they realized it or not, these men followed this
formula. They worked with cool and tireless efficiency; they
spoke infrequently. I am quite sure they were unconscious
of the beauty of the day, the rising of the wind, the presence
of any other fishermen, the sailboats which now heeled to
the water as the wind carried them along. It was not that
they were incapable of enjoying such things, but they could
not work efficiently if they permitted such things to distract
them. Fishing to them was a sport and one they thoroughly
enjoyed, but they did it with seriousness. They certainly did
it well. I did not see them stop to untangle a backlash or
fail to place the plug exactly where they wanted it. Their
precision recalled that of a friend of mine who used to put a
pail of water on his lawn and then practice dropping a fly
into it.

I felt free to ask them about their catch for they knew I

A Worms a Worm

61

did not fish. One of them held up a bass which would weigh
at least two pounds and said:

"We have five as big or bigger than this."

He had picked up the fish as he made his cast. He laid it
down before the plug was ready to be reeled in. There had
been no waste movement, and there would be no break in
their rhythm except when they caught and landed another
fish or moved elsewhere.

I inquired about the fishing when I reached the canoe-
house. The manager said:

"The old boy caught his limit and left. Somebody else
moved right into the spot where he was anchored but I
haven't seen the new man catch a fish. But the men seem to
be having a good time."

When the canoe was put away and I was ready to go, the
manager said:

"Here's some fish for you. They've been on ice since I got
through cleaning them. They will be as fresh and sweet as
when I caught them this morning."

The Bill of Fare

W' ♦ HOW IS THE FOOD PROBLEM MET IN

the marsh? Is the question of supply one of chance or are
there certain fundamentals governing it? I asked myself the
question one morning in late May.

It was a week or two after I had made my grand tour of
exploration and examination of sport fishing in the bay. The
day was warm and decidedly not a time for action. The pen-
cil and notebook lay in my lap but I made no entries, the
binoculars hung from my neck and had been untouched
since I entered the canoe. I paddled lazily with considerable
intervals between strokes. I saw a redwing in the top of a
nearby tree but none of those usually active birds flew past
me. In the cattails one bird, a yellow-throat, the marsh war-
bler with yellow body and black mask, uttered a few notes,
then was silent. There was no other singing. Half the usual
number of swallows were in the sky. The urge to relax
seemed almost unanimous all over the marsh. I think I could
have dozed if something in the water had not attracted my
notice. It was a peculiar dark spot, probably a little more
than a yard in diameter, proceeding slowly, its margins
changing shape slightly as it moved. Occasionally it came up

62

-§>flwyc*.

64 Union Bay

enough to ruffle the water surface and then it would drop
down slightly and leave it smooth again. I soon found that it
was composed of small fish held in a group by I do not know
what. If there was a mature fish guarding them, I did not
see it. They were closely packed in many layers so that the
total must have been much in excess of a thousand. They
moved slowly, fanning out at times, closing again, impressive
in their numbers. Small fish of most species are not easily
told apart except by experts but the identification of this
school offered no difficulties. Each was a miniature of the
mature fish: big head, smooth body, and dark in color. They
lacked the transparency and pale color of many young fish
and in the water showed as distinctly as India ink on white
drawing paper. They were catfish.

They traveled close to the bank and through the sub-
merged plant growth and beneath the overhanging and
slowly swaying cattail leaves. In the open water they could
have been instantly spotted by a kingfisher, merganser, or
grebe, whereas in this shifting mixture of light and shadow
they had a much better chance to pass unnoticed. When I
got close to them they dived and scattered, but their dis-
persal was only momentary and they soon collected and
swam quietly along again. This instantaneous dispersal
served, I thought, to insure that no great paw of a bear
would scoop them up by the hundreds, and to prevent any
single blow from killing many of them. A fish would have
much work in collecting any number of these frightened and
scattered midgets. I let the canoe drift idly with them. Oc-
casionally one would come to the surface as if for air, but I
saw nothing to indicate that they were feeding. Indeed,
many people who were not informed would wonder how
these tiny things could find food at all.

I have learned that, although it does not require extensive
knowledge to make superficial observations, there are certain
elementary scientific facts which must be understood before

The Bill of Fare 65

the method of operation of such a natural unit can be un-
derstood. Most important is that each community like a
marsh, prairie, woodland, and desert is a tight association of
many related factors which tend to make the area a self-
supporting natural unit. The residents are interdependent
and lead a life made possible only by the continued exist-
ence of other members of the community.

As applied to the marsh, this means that fish, fowl, plants,
and other forms of life are associated because each of them
makes some contribution and receives some benefit which
enables them to survive as a group. Except for the radiant
energy of the sun, which is the basis of existence for all living
things, the group is almost self-sufficient.

I thought of this in terms of the catfish flotilla which navi-
gated within a couple of yards of my canoe. It is a part of the
marsh community and it is safe to assert that thousands of
other such assemblages have traveled these same canals and
that a certain proportion of the individuals have matured
and then produced other schools. Such defenseless and ten-
der forms of life certainly cannot forage here and there for
food. There must be a regular and certain supply always
ready for them. In fact, there must be some assurance that
every form of life in this community can find food sufficient
for its needs. All items in the complex bill of fare must be
constantly forthcoming if the residents are to endure. Each
has its own food requirements; each will die if deprived of
these requirements; each must depend upon the continued
and successful satisfaction of the group needs. Because there
is scanty discussion of this phase of community life many
people know surprisingly little about it.

Once I took a high school lad, a friend's son, through the
marsh. The day was hot but he insisted on doing his share of
the paddling on the rather long route which we took. In
some places the bay was free, in others the aquatic plants
were thick enough to make paddling extremely tiresome. He

66 Union Bay

sat in the bow and like all beginners dipped his blade so
deep that each stroke brought up a heavy and messy strand
of weeds. Finally he said:

"I don't like this stuff. It's a nuisance, it wraps around my
paddle and triples the work. It ruins a place for swimming.
There ought to be a way of getting rid of it."

I made no comment, but he did not let the matter drop:

"What's the trouble?" he asked. "You don't say anything.
Am I wrong?"

"You're partly right," I answered. "From a standpoint of
swimming and paddling, it is a nuisance. But from there on,
you're wrong. You might as well say that you like lawns bet-
ter than vegetables and grainfields, and you think that lawns
should be put in to replace them."

"I don't quite get the idea," he said.

I explained to him that streams, lakes, and other bodies of
water are heavy producers of animal and vegetable life, and
that much of this life is of considerable value to man. A
sandy beach makes a splendid place for swimming and sun-
bathing but is almost a complete loss as a producer of the
things that man and other animals need for sustenance and
shelter. Its shifting often prevents growth; moreover, it fre-
quently lacks the essentials that produce growth. Generally
speaking, it is as useless as the rock exposures and alkaline
strips found in certain western agricultural districts.

The opinion of this boy is that of many people. They de-
sire a summer place on a lake where the beaches are clean
and sandy. They also want good fishing. If every property
owner had this first wish granted, it would mean a deep and
clean basin with no vegetation to clog or discolor the water.
Such a lake might be a great satisfaction to bathers and a
delight to the eye but where would the fish come from? We
could not raise cattle if hayfields and pastures were con-
verted into lawns. Cattle and fish must eat: cattle must have
hay and pasture and fish must get their living, directly or

The Bill of Fare 67

indirectly, from the underwater vegetation. Without aquatic
pastures there can be few fish.

The young catfish which moved along with no apparent
desire for food had a vital interest in the plants of the marsh.
They could seek the shelter of their leaves and branches as
a refuge from the enemies that sought them. The plants
were the source of their food. These tiny fish would eat either
the microscopical plants or equally small animals, such as
tiny hard-shelled animals called crustaceans. They would find
millions of diatoms, those minute plants which float free or
attach themselves to various objects in every body of water.
This feeding would be a part of that complex affair known
as the marsh food web. Almost every living thing would be
represented in food chains either as a feeder upon other
members of the chain, or as food for those members, or in
both capacities. There are many such food chains in the
marsh. Except under extraordinary conditions, there would
be no danger of these young catfish lacking food. It was
available in suitable form, animal and vegetable, and in such
quantities that the young fry would find it everywhere. Fail-
ure to survive probably would be chargeable to causes not
connected with the bill of fare.

The vegetation which the canoe passed appeared adapted
to do its part in the marsh food web. Mustards and grasses
occupied many of the high spots, and trees and shrubs had
moved in where the moisture was not more than they could
stand. Emersed plants, those partly in and partly out of wa-
ter, grew in the wetter places, and floating types, some small,
some larger, drifted around in the water. There were the
acres of pondweeds which rooted in the shallower portions
of the bay and lived there, submerged except for the blooms
or tips of the leaves.

I continually observed the contribution which these vari-
ous plants made to the marsh bill of fare and to the other
needs of the local living things. The loosestrife furnished

68 Union Bay

honey to the bees and home sites for the tule wrens, which,
together with the song sparrows, carried to their nests bill-
fuls of insects which they had taken from the stems and
leaves. The cattails and the loosestrife provided all the nest-
building material for the wrens, strips of leaves being used
for the exterior and framework, and the cattail down for
lining. The blackbirds nested among the denser growths of
the plant and fed on the many insects which clung to the
stalks and others which tunneled into the leaves. In the fall
the birds, released from their nesting duties, flocked together
and hunted insects all over the district. The marsh appeared
to me like a complex factory in which each creature did small
specific tasks, apparently unrelated, but all a part of a great
unified operation.

I could not fail to notice how considerable a part the
submerged, or underwater plants, played in supplying the
items on the food list. When I saw them in the water they
appeared much like the land plants but, as might be ex-
pected, their structure is quite different. The land plants,
except for their roots, exist in a medium much lighter than
water, and much less able to provide mechanical support.
Consequently land plants must be strongly built in order to
withstand the rains, the strains caused by winds, and the
results of frost. On the contrary, ' water > is a much heavier
medium than air, its movement in shallow places is not
violent, and the support it gives to the plant is important.
The plant structure thus has fewer strains to endure and
smaller loads to handle, so that the underwater parts can be
weaker and less resistant than like parts of land vegetation.
I have often watched a plant when the waves from a passing
boat agitated it. As each part yielded to the swells the whole
became a misty graceful shape which changed to precise
erectness as the waves subsided. All of its delightful freedom
and underwater softness is lost if such a plant is brought into
the air.

The Bill of Fare 69

Because of its extent, the variety of small animals, and the
many kinds of living places it provides for them, the area
about the underwater plants probably harbors the greatest
concentrations of animal life in the marsh. Different small
species occupy the diverse water depths. I found some swim-
ming on or near the surface, some attached to, or creeping
on, the stems, and with a small net I could scoop up many
which crawled in the sand or mud, or buried themselves in
the ooze of the bottom. I occasionally spaded up and ex-
amined material from the shallows. When the surface was
still, I could look down in the water on the shady side of the
boat and watch the living things moving about— small fish,
crustaceans, and the like. I often saw mussels on the bottom
and shells which had been emptied by the muskrats, and now
and then a turtle would scramble off a log. I knew that the
water abounded with animals of miscroscopic size, such as
protozoans and crustaceans, which ate the diatoms. Many
other creatures helped to make up the invisible population
always present in water. A friend, an expert on limnology, or
fresh-water life, allowed me to look through his microscope
at many of the diatoms. They were enclosed in silica cases
of a design daintier and a beauty more exquisite than the
vanity cases of wealthy women. Seeing them I could under-
stand why men have spent entire lifetimes in the microscopi-
cal study of marsh and lake life, a study so complex and
involved that its details are quite beyond the reach of any-
body but the specialists.

My trips through the marsh taught me something about
the regularity of its wildlife. I became acquainted with the
various nesting spots of the bitterns and knew that these
locations were occupied each year by the same or other
bitterns. I knew that the Virginia rails preferred certain dense
cattail localities. The cliff swallows returned each year to nest
in the only local substitute for cliffs— the walls of some of the
University buildings. The green heron worked up and down

70 Union Bay

the channel which had the most trees along its margin. The
dragonflies hunted for insects back and forth over similar
territory. Each live thing followed a certain pattern, occupied
a certain territory, and preferred a certain diet. I could as-
sume, as many ecologists had pointed out in other localities,
that this marsh was quite well stabilized in its plant and ani-
mal population, and that the life within its confines was little
changed from year to year.

Of course there were some shifts. I thought the marsh
especially susceptible to modification through the action of
man. The delicate mechanism of such a community could be
affected by apparently remote things. I recalled the state-
ment of a game management expert who said that man's
introduction of the European carp had seriously affected the
supply of duck food. He said no arrowhead could be raised
in an area if numbers of carp made a practice of rooting
about in it. I noticed the gradual recession of the dense cat-
tail stand in the place where the water from the boiler of the
University power plant is discharged. Something proved in-
jurious enough to make the plants retreat until now an area
of perhaps two acres is bare. If man filled a place by dumping
soil, water-loving plants immediately disappeared and soon
Willows and cottonwoods began to sprout. If his dredges
made a new channel, then the change of plants was almost
complete.

There were other changes not due to man. When the tiny
duckweed found the season entirely to its liking, i't floated
about in sheets so dense that a wind would blow it up on a
low spot in windrows. The shutting off of light by such float-
ing blankets seriously retarded the bottom growth and thus
indirectly affected the frogs, minnows, and other aquatic
animals which depended on the plants for sustenance and
shelter. I did not find it difficult to watch the struggle year
after year as each plant maintained itself successfully in the
areas for which it was best fitted, continually reached out to

The Bill of Fare 71

extend its boundaries, met the attack of invading and com-
peting species, and frequently was forced to retire as condi-
tions of soil, climate, and water depth changed. Loosestrife
could not remain in deeper water where cattails flourished
successfully, and when the depths increased still more the
cattails had to give way to submerged plants.

I thought of these larger plants as I watched the shift-
ing which took place. The same alterations occurred in the
animal life as well but were much more difficult to see. The
cattails and the loosestrife were constantly before my eyes
and could be watched, but it was not possible to follow the
fortunes of the young catfish and determine accurately their
fate. Although I passed through the canal two or three times
a week, I never saw them again. But I knew that all such
creatures were being constantly harassed. On every trip to
the area I saw small fish leave the water in a tiny arc as they
endeavored to avoid a larger fish when it made a dash at
them. The pied-billed grebes dived continually close to the
margins where minnows might seek refuge. Some species of
ducks took such food if they could capture it. The herons
and the bittern were adept at fishing. I wondered what per-
centage of the young catfish became a part of the marsh bill
of fare, how many succumbed to such factors as pollution and
disease, and what percentage grew into mature fish? And I
knew that in this community the problems of all living things,
large and small, were similar to those of these catfish. Sudden
alterations due to floods, low temperatures, or storms might
be a serious threat to the whole marsh. Each radical shift
caused destruction, sometimes unseen for a time, which could
be withstood only because of the extreme fertility of the
survivors. Each considerable change would bring about read-
justments with perhaps the disappearance of some forms
and an invasion by others. But in spite of these variations the
integrity of the community would be maintained, and it

72 Union Bay

would persist until alterations were drastic enough to affect
completely the characteristics of the area.

I should like to have followed the fortunes of these catfish
and to have observed their part in this remarkable food
chain where tiny animals feed upon tiny plants, larger ones
on smaller ones, thus building up creatures such as frogs and
small fish each of which can take, as it pleases, its choice of
food from a lengthy list of smaller and weaker members of
the community. But they, in turn, become a part of the bill
of fare. These frogs and our catfish, dominant over many
forms, are dominated by others in the ascending scale. Bass
raid the tangles where the smaller forms hide, but the bass
are not safe from the fast-swimming otters and minks.

When I consider the apparent ruthlessness of this living
bill of fare, the changing position of the participants in the
program appears as a balancing factor. The tiny catfish from
the very start were at once predators and prey. They were
at the mercy of many living things, even of dragonflies and
predacious insects of other species, but they, in turn, could
prey upon microscopic animals. Without exception, and re-
gardless of the final size of the creature, its young is subject
to attack, often by animals which, when the young attain
maturity, would be preyed upon by them. Predation is not
necessarily by larger creatures: ants and lice are quite capa-
ble of killing a whole brood of nestlings, even of the fiercest
of hawks. An injured bird, which would survive if left alone,
loses its standing in the predator list, and usually becomes the
prey of some enemy conscious of its weakness.

Although this is hardly a scientific observation, I cannot
help thinking that, as a lunchroom, the marsh is operated
on a unique but extraordinary plan. The living patrons exist
indirectly and sometimes directly on vegetation, and on each
other. The species seem to follow the principle, "It is all right
for you to eat some of us if we can eat some of you." It is
amazingly simple. If the population of any species gets too

The Bill of Fare 73

high, it is adjusted by feeding the surplus to the other
marsh dwellers, or to visitors. This method effectively re-
lieves the pressure by eliminating the extra population and
at the same time furnishes additional provender for the
individuals which remain. Think of the economy of a plan
which, when the food supply gets short, solves the problem
by cutting down the number of guests, and then serving
those which have been eliminated as the main course.

Shells on Union Bay
7

/ ♦ THROUGH WATCHING AREAS LIKE THE

Union Bay marsh where wildlife is subject to constant con-
tact with the city, I have learned that the direct action of
man through such agencies as shotguns, traps, slingshots, and
domestic cats and dogs is not the only disturbing factor.
Other influences, indirect and often quite obscure, may have
far-reaching consequences. The fills, the dredging, the erec-
tion of buildings may, or may not, be of importance, but I
like to watch all changes, however slight, and weigh their
effect. This is the story of a shift of apparently no moment
but which has greatly altered certain conditions.

One morning in late spring I heard the crew turnout as
it prepared to take to the water. The new and imposing shell-
house, only a few rods away from my canoe, was completely
hidden from view by the six-foot cattails, but I knew what
was going on as well as if I were sitting on a coiner of the
concrete ramp which lay between the shell storage room and
the water of the inlet. The engine of the coach's launch
snorted and popped and then subsided into smooth action
when it warmed up. I could hear the voices of the crew men
as they prepared to remove the shells from their racks and

74

Shells on Union Bay

75

, =C^SZ1 —- - — ^"ve*.

to carry them to one of the landing floats which lay at right
angles to the ramp. Then, when the command was given, the
men would lower the shells and place the delicate boats on
the water as deftly as if they were handling a toy sailboat
instead of a sixty-foot craft capable of seating eight oarsmen
and a coxswain. There they would wait with the blades of
their twelve-foot oars held vertically until, upon a command
from the coxswain, they placed their sweeps in position and
stepped carefully and smoothly into the fragile, narrow shell.
The day suited equally the oarsman, the vacationist, and
the local wildlife. The thin haze made everybody want to
push beyond it, the slight chill in the air invited rather than
repelled action. The movement of the birds indicated con-
tentment. The tule wrens carried food to their young, the
song sparrows sang as they looked for insects that might be
on the cattails, and the mallard hens up-ended along the

76 Union Bay

marsh margins. I had been grounded on a small flat for fully
ten minutes before I noticed a bittern standing a few yards
to my right, with body stiff and head pointed upward. A
Traill flycatcher, sitting almost erect in the manner of its
kind, called from a low willow and from time to time flew
out to snap up a passing insect. Odors filled the air. Predom-
inant was the keen pungency of the marsh itself, but mixed
with it was the unmistakable sweetness of the cottonwoods,
the smell produced by the suri on the dew-covered vegeta-
tion, and the acrid but infrequent scent of rubber burning
on the nearby sanitary fill.

The prow of the first shell appeared and almost immedi-
ately all three craft and the coaching launch passed me. The
black outriggers for the oars projected like the legs of a huge
insect. A little wave curled and bubbled at the bow of each
boat. Eight stalwarts responded to the cadence set by one
small coxswain. The passing of a shell at a distance is smooth,
powerful, and graceful, but often the feeling of speed is lost
in the vastness of the background. But here in the marsh and
so close to me, all other impressions were subordinated to
that of swiftness. What would aborigines, viewing these con-
traptions at some distance, have thought of them? Not as
some kind of a bird— birds seldom confine themselves to one
plane and almost never swim continuously at high speeds.
Not as mammals, for mammals do not make an even display
of the upper part of their bodies as they swim. They might
have thought of them in terms of water striders, those long-
legged insects which do not swim in the water but use their
legs to propel their slender bodies swiftly, but more or less
irregularly, over the surface film. That is somewhat the
nature of the shells: they seem to move on, rather than in,
the water as does an ordinary boat. Shells are designed for
lightness, shallow draft, and streamlined curves so they can
be operated with great speed. But, like the water striders,

Shells on Union Bay 77

the power is not applied quite continuously so that there is
always a small but noticeable unevenness in the movement.

The birds at the mouth of the inlet appeared accustomed
to the passage. The coots pattered a few feet and then settled
down again with the clumsy lunge which always sent up a
shower of drops. The mallards quacked and flew but without
concern and soon dropped into the water and began to feed.
The song sparrows did not cease singing. The bittern, per-
haps startled by the sound of the engine, stopped posing and
moved slowly into the cattails. Swallows attracted by the mo-
tion of the shells swooped close to them for a few rods. No-
where was there any evidence of alarm.

The three shells and the launch came to rest about half a
mile away. The voice of the coach could be heard but his
words were not intelligible. The men had stripped off their
shirts and through my binoculars I could see the rhythmical
play of their muscles as they practiced starts. The gulls on
the log rafts rose in a flock, then circled and returned to their
resting places. The practice continued. Each trial start ap-
proached closer to the lake until the shells left the bay and
disappeared to the north. For the moment I could see no
other craft. If there were any fishermen they were in the
channels. The area was as quiet as a mountain lake, and
apparently free from all city pressure. The fact that the
crew had merely made a passage through the marsh and
would be away for most of their practice heightened my
previous opinion that its impact upon the wildlife was very
light. I was correct in assuming that the activity around the
shellhouse would have little effect on any but the wariest of
visiting species. But were there any other hidden factors that
might be of enough importance in an inquiry which con-
cerned the relations of man and wildlife? It would be well
to look for them.

While I poked about the various quarters of the bay, I
considered its early history and that of rowing at the Uni-

78 Union Bay

versity. The building of the ship canal between Puget Sound
and Lake Washington had lowered the lake seven and one-
half feet below its previous average elevation. Before the
work Union Bay was a weed-free and rather deep sheet of
water. When the heavy timber around the bay was being
logged, a mill had been located on the north bank and steam-
ers called at the dock. The first shellhouse was situated on
what is now the west side of the marsh. The lowering of the
lake left shallow water and mud flats which necessitated
moving to Portage Bay, a part of lake Union just west of
Union Bay. The next to last shellhouse was built on the
northeast side of the ship canal where it entered Union Bay.
It has only recently been replaced by the concrete building
inside the marsh area. The type and cost of the structure
indicates that the site is permanent.

I was convinced that the earlier days of the sport had little
effect on the marsh wildlife, either when the shellhouse was
kept in the present marsh area or when the crew operated
from the canal. There could have been no direct evils caused
by proximity: the practice routes did not cut across the
marsh, and the birds did not frequent the deep water of the
canal because food could not be obtained there. But had
the construction of the new quarters altered the situation?
I wondered why I had not given the matter any previous
thought.

I paddled to the mouth of one of the channels leading into
the inlet and looked about. The new shellhouse was on
the margin of the marsh to the east of the baseball field. The
wreck of the old canoehouse stood just to the south. The man-
ager and his canoes had transferred residence to the former
shellhouse on the canal. The move had probably made lit-
tle difference in marsh relations. I supposed that as many
people formerly came to the canoehouse as now came to the
new rowing headquarters. And yet I knew that many changes
had taken place. They must be attributed to causes other

Shells on Union Bay 79

than the mere substitution of one collegiate activity for
another.

As I entered the inlet I found myself listening for the
typical song of the area, that of the Traill flycatcher. For-
merly its soft lisping note could be heard all through the
nesting season. I wondered why I did not hear it until I
realized that it had come always from underbrush below the
cotton woods or from the willows, and that all of this growth
had now been removed. Then the reasons for absence of
song became clear; they were due not to the existence of
the building, but to the changes in the landscape made neces-
sary by the new activity.

The absence of wood ducks seemed to confirm this ex-
planation. I had not seen them in the vicinity since the new
structure had been started. Before that, they had become a
little more numerous each year and had begun to nest in
the area. The manager had cultivated the mature birds. He
had attracted them by regular feeding and had so far won
their confidence that, when the first brood ever recorded in
the marsh had been hatched, the parent birds had brought
them to the float to feed. I had often watched these tiny and
timid bunches of gray and brownish-black down as they
rushed for the bread which the manager tossed on the water.
Because nesting sites largely control the population of these
lovely green- and violet-crested birds, we constructed some
wooden nesting boxes as a substitute for the holes in trees
which they prefer, and had put them in the large poplars
to the north of the canoehouse. Our prospects of establishing
this most striking of all American ducks were abruptly ended
when the preparation of the building site necessitated the
cutting of the trees and the filling of the marshy shore. The
wood ducks have permanently disappeared from that section
of the marsh, and so far as I know there are no proper sites
near, although there may be some just outside the marsh.

I studied the area further. The inlet had been a shallow

80 Union Bay

place, much like the swampy spots where, as a boy, I fol-
lowed the shores and caught frogs so small that it required
all the persuasion of which I was capable to induce my
mother to cook the legs. The area housed tadpoles, crayfish,
minnows, and large quantities of underwater plants. Many
birds, including practically every strange migrant, sooner or
later found their way to this rich food. If it had been a motel
a No Vacancy sign would have been constantly on display.
Willows and cottonwoods brought in warblers and fly-
catchers. Small mud flats at the northern end offered induce-
ments to shorebirds. The manager's habit of feeding the
ducks and his protective attitude toward them held many
birds in the area. Some mallard hens never failed to bring
their young for a morning and evening, snack. The total area
of the inlet was about equal to two or three city blocks, but
it played an important part in the total marsh economy.

The changes which I saw were not extensive from the stand-
point of acreage. The bottom had been dredged deeper, the
trees removed. A small peninsula in front of the canoehouse
had been eliminated, the two points of the inlet had been
rounded. The channels had been widened to permit the pas-
sage of the shells. A small structure had been erected to
house the coaching launch. The area had formerly seemed
rather crowded and untidy; now it was quite open and many
would have thought it more pleasing to the eye.

I heard the crews returning after the practice. There
were the cries of the coxswains as they encouraged the oars-
men or counted the stroke, there was the regular movement
of the sweeps as they plunged into the water, made their
stroke, and then returned to start another cycle. I clearly
caught the sound of the coach's launch, his megaphoned
remarks as he criticized the form of the individuals or of
the crew as a unit. The men lay back as they finished the
stroke, then moved forward with feathered oars until ready
for the catch. The eight blades swung into rowing position

Shells on Union Bay 81

and dipped simultaneously in preparation for the mighty
sweep which sent the boat hissing through the water. The
birds moved out of their passage as before— warily enough
but without alarm or extreme haste.

The shells entered the inlet, backed-water to a stop. The
crews got out, parked their oars, and then carried the shells
into the storage room, a place full of enough racks to accom-
modate three or four dozen craft. The bodies of the men were
wet with perspiration, their breath just a trifle short, but
there was little sign of fatigue as they headed for the show-
ers. The coach launch pulled up to its landing and the field
work was done for the day. In a few minutes the place was
deserted.

As the building grew quiet and I resumed my paddling I
thought how easy it was to see the effect of environment on
wildlife and how much more difficult it was to see its influ-
ence on man. The crews of the Pacific slope were almost al-
ways near the very top of the rowing list. Often first place
at Poughkeepsie or Marietta was a race between California
and Washington. How great a part did environment play in
this result? Was the mildness of the climate of considerable
importance in the production of a superior crew? There were
many advantages in the location of the University. Here
the crews could always find a sheltered place to practice if
desired, or a stormy stretch to condition the men to rowing
in a choppy or wind-disturbed lake. Possibly it went further
back; the Northwest mountains, wheat fields, and forests
might provide the proper places to grow men capable of
developing the necessary skill to handle the heavy sweeps
and the enduring stamina required to withstand the sustained
ordeal of the races. Environment greatly affected other ani-
mals; what did it do to oarsmen? Someday a genius with a
passion for such research may tackle the problem, and, forti-
fied with data on genealogies, avocations, vocations, nation-
alities, diet, and heredity, may succeed in drawing conclu-

82 Union Bay

sions which will tell us much about the marsh and the
crewmen who train so valiantly in its vicinity.

I moved along with the feeling that the crews were in no
way responsible for the conditions which I was now con-
vinced were greatly altered. But the change in location of
the crewhouse, apparently without significance either for
good or bad, was proving to be the most disturbing factor
in years. I passed the place where the canoehouse manager
had first seen whistling swans in this city area. I had watched
them pull food from a bottom just within reach of their long
necks. I had seen them in the same place in several succeed-
ing years but I knew that I would not see them there again.
The water was now several feet deep and the vegetation had
been removed by the dredge. I remembered the answer I
had received from the greatest of wildlife management men,
when I had written him as to the advisability and desirability
of preserving areas like the marsh. He had replied that it
was not easy to make an unbiased reply to my letter because
the institution with which he was connected had just spent
nearly a hundred thousand dollars to reproduce artificially
the conditions which our district was so anxious to eliminate.

I did not think of this as a bit of propaganda nor did I
think that the nesting site of a few wild fowl was of more
importance than the erection of a third-of-a-million dollar
building to house one of the finest of all collegiate sports.
But since this story deals with the impact of man on wildlife
it is essential to point out the unsuspected effects of man's
handling of areas like the marsh.

I approached the point where a tule wren, the most indus-
trious of all marsh architects, had built seven nests in the
early stages of one nesting season. A tule wren had annually
nested on this point. If it was ever used again for nesting
purposes it would be by a pied-billed grebe or a coot, for the
smooth water of the marsh now covered it. Two nesting sites

Shells on Union Bay 83

of the bitterns had been removed. The yellow-throats and the
flycatchers would have to move elsewhere. But it was not the
removal of the nesting sites which was of the greatest im-
portance.

Man's impact had been severe, if unpremeditated. The
greatest harm was that primary requirements of food and
shelter had been interfered with. Nobody had realized it;
probably nobody would have acted differently if they had
known it. The results would be far-reaching. There could be
no interference with the principal elements of marsh econ-
omy without serious results. In many other parts of the area
the result would have been negligible, but unfortunately this
had been the key spot. Practically every rare bird that I had
listed in the marsh had been observed in this bay. It was
not unreasonable to think that from now on few new species
of birds would be seen. They had been attracted by the food
and the shelter. But the apparently insignificant changes had
eliminated much of the cover. Dredging had destroyed the
vegetation which sheltered the minnows, the crustaceans,
and other animal life so much a part of birds' food and so
much desired by them. At least temporarily, the value of the
locality as the food center of the marsh was over. It had been
an easily available wildlife restaurant but now the restaurant
would be closed. It was as if a home garden had been torn
up so that all of its fertility was removed. Were there not
other spots in the marsh where the visitors would find suit-
able conditions? I could think of none which possessed so
many advantages. But a philosophical attitude is much better
than one of pessimism. If the area is destined to disappear
as a marsh and become a brushed and combed addition to
the district, the changes will have little effect on the general
situation. If, on the other hand, enough of the public feels
that there is a real need for, and value in, such self-support-
ing natural museums, no harm has been done which cannot

84 Union Bay

be easily repaired. The dredging of a few small areas to the
proper depth and a few years' time will produce crops of
vegetation and animal life which will restore the conditions
which have temporarily vanished.

The White Pigeon

W* I FOUND THAT LIFE ABOUND THIS

marsh hotel certainly was not a continuous series of startling
and exciting adventures. The days sometimes passed with a
certain degree of smoothness, with no highlights and an al-
most monotonous regularity as far as conspicuous activity
was concerned. But there were many smaller incidents and
episodes which always go on where wild or human life con-
gregates, and in which I found much to occupy my attention.
I refer to the matters connected with the daily routine of
the residents and visitors, to their family affairs, their squab-
bles, and experiences. Incidents of this sort form a remark-
ably revealing portrait of the marsh scene.

There was the episode of the white pigeon, which began
to pay daily visits to the canoehouse. Where it came from
is of no particular consequence, but I assume that it was one
of a band of about two hundred which had become wild and
nested on adjacent buildings and which kept fat from the
pickings on the nearby sanitary fill. I watched it as it walked
up and down the roof of a small shed.

"You're feeding it, aren't you?" I said to the manager.

"How did you know?"

85

86 Union Bay

"It's so tame and acts as if it had lived here all its life."

"Yes, and it certainly takes over the place," he said. "See
how it acts when I put out a little feed."

He scattered a handful of cracked grain. The pigeon looked
around to see that no other birds were present and then
started to feed. But soon four blackbirds and a tame mallard
hen joined the pigeon on the low roof.

"Now watch what comes next," the canoeman said.

The bird immediately stopped feeding, sidled over to the
mallard, and without display of temper or nervousness,
crowded her to the edge of, and off, the roof. It used the
same tactics with the redwings until the roof was bare of
birds and it was free to feed without competition.

"It will keep the roof clear until it has enough to eat and
then it will let the others feed. I guess the redwings and the
mallard realize that or they wouldn't get away so quickly.
That fellow certainly knows how to get things done without
stirring up trouble."

"Does it stay here most of the day?" Tasked.

"It doesn't go far away. Sometimes it perches on the roof
of the crewhouse, but it comes over here as soon as I get out
feed or when a bird settles on the roof."

On my next trip I found two pigeons there— a brown
female had joined the white male. The white bird paraded
and cooed before her in a possessive sort of way.

"You started something," I observed.

"Don't you think it," he answered. "I'm not going to have
a colony of pigeons messing around here. A public place is
not for them. I told my wife we would have to get rid of
them."

"How?"

"The next time we visit our daughter in Auburn I'll put
the birds in a box and take them down there. They have
plenty of room and the birds will like it."

When I saw him again, I asked:

The White Pigeon

87

s-m

.••\w|to

"How did the pigeon transfer work out?"

"Fine. I had no trouble in getting the birds into a box and
they stood the trip O.K."

"It's all settled then?" I said.

"Not quite. The male stayed all right but the brown female
was back again the day after I left them."

"What are you going to do now?"

He looked a bit sheepish and said:

"Nothing, I guess. My wife says that any bird smart and
eager enough to fly thirty miles over unknown country to its
old home thinks enough of that home to be entitled to stay
there. And I guess she's right. You know it's hard to throw
out an animal that adopts you."

That kind of tie-up can easily happen where civilization
is close to birds and mammals. In the country it manifests

88 Union Bay

itself when children nurse and raise a lamb which a herder
disposes of because the ewe refuses to feed it, or when peo-
ple mother a mallard hen and its young, or a boy brings up a
colt or calf, or protects a wounded duck or goose which has
wandered to the farm. It is so common that it is the rule
rather than the exception.

Almost as common in such areas are accidents. They occur
with regularity that might be compared with the automobile
and street accidents of a city. In some of them I found the vic-
tims lifeless, crumpled, with no evidence to indicate the na-
ture of their death. In others the cause was plain, as in the
case of the robin which I found poised in an unnatural .posi-
tion on a hardhack bush. Its body was stiff, its wings partially
open, and it did not move as the canoe approached. I won-
dered why until I pulled down the branch and found that a
sharply broken twig had impaled the bird as neatly as if it
had been spitted. Death had come suddenly for there was no
derangement of wings or feathers to indicate that it had
struggled. It almost floated there as a bird mounted on a hat
might seem to float, graceful in outline and color, but ghastly
in its omission of the one thing that originally made it so
delightful— its pulsating vigor and awareness of life.

Many are the traps for unwary things to step into. A black
object swinging in the morning breeze attracted my atten-
tion. It moved slowly and without noise, in a long arc, and
it twisted as it moved. It might have been a black yo-yo or
a rubber ball attached to a string, except that it lacked the
solidity of such objects, and swung as a last year's pine cone
would have swayed in a light wind. It turned as I moved
nearer so that I saw a red blotch on a black surface. Then I
knew what it was: a redwing blackbird tangled in a thin
piece of brown string. One end of the string had wound se-
curely around the willow twig and the free end had in some
way become wrapped about the legs of the bird so that its
efforts to work free had more firmly netted it until at last

The White Pigeon 89

it became a living pendulum. I hoped that the ordeal had
not been long.

If there are many ways for the older birds to get into
trouble, they are as nothing compared to the difficulties in
which the young ones sometimes find themselves. Grim cas-
ualties come to mind but I prefer to relate an event which
had a happier ending. One day I observed a dirty brown
object the size of a golf ball which slowly moved on the
marsh bank and wriggled and showed a convulsive kind of
animation. I suppose that years of wildlife observance sharp-
ens one's responsiveness to movement, for I saw it instantly
even though it blended almost perfectly with its surround-
ings, and in spite of the fact that the canoe was moving
quite rapidly. Completely nonplussed, I braked with the pad-
dle and moved back to inspect it. I had to get within a yard
before I realized that this animated ball of dirt was a young
duckling. The thin layer of mud so covered it that I could
not identify it until I took a small piece of branch and gently
rubbed off patches. It lay in a hollow not much larger than
my cupped hand. Almost exhausted, it struggled, stopped,
resumed struggling, and squirmed like a turtle that had been
turned on its back. What held it there? From the bow of the
canoe I managed to reach and run my hands around it, which
procedure showed that it was a young mallard firmly trapped
beneath an imbedded stick of pencil size. The stick projected
at an angle which, in combination with the curvature of the
hollow, proved to be a trap which held the bird more firmly
as it pressed forward to free itself. How long it had been
struggling was doubtful, how much longer it would have
continued as equally uncertain, but of this I am sure— it
would have been doomed if I had not passed just as it was
making another effort to release itself.

Such examples of marsh difficulty were quickly terminated;
others dragged on for weeks. There was the case of the gull
which temporarily became a shorebird. Six different kinds of

90 Union Bay

gulls visit the marsh during the year. This one, the glaucous-
winged, the largest, is distinguished from the others by the
absence of black in its wing tips. I saw it first as a white
patch moving in the tangle of cattails two or three feet back
from the water, an unusual place for any kind of a white
object and particularly for a gull. The day was cold, the
wind pushed white clouds to the northeast, and two or three
hundred gulls flew above the marsh. That was the kind of
action they liked on cold and windy fall days. They cared
nothing for moving about below as a chicken might move
in a barnyard. I wondered why this bird had grounded and
why it should behave in such an un-gull-like fashion. Gulls
did not regularly practice methodical examination of the
ground. They visited the sanitary fill and fought over scraps
they found, or they pursued the other gulls when they had
been fortunate enough to pick up a large or otherwise tempt-
ing morsel. The humdrum life was not for them. They ranged
about constantly and, when tired, slept motionless on the
athletic fields, the roof of the athletic pavilion, or on the ex-
posed open flats which formed temporary islands when the
water was low. Why was this bird behaving so unconvention-
ally?

I determined to investigate and paddled my canoe close
to where the gull stood inside the cattails. If, temporarily, it
had become a shorebird in habits, it overlooked that fact
when danger threatened, for it immediately, left the shelter
of the cattails which many shorebirds would have sought,
and entered the water, paddling just fast enough to maintain
a position about a rod ahead of the canoe. As I increased my
speed, the bird swam faster until it began to show signs of
distress. I thought I knew its trouble and so I paddled until
I was only a yard behind it. The single attempt it made to fly
was a failure, for one wing refused to operate and the bird,
realizing the fact, put no more strain on it. It neither made
any further attempt to escape nor did it show any fear nor

The White Pigeon 91

yield to any panic. And why should it? It had been raised on
the islands of the Strait of Juan de Fuca or of Puget Sound
where life had been a constant battle. It had been an adven-
turer from the time it could fly, had sought its food over a
wide area, and had pursued it regardless of distances in-
volved. It had no gentleness in its makeup. It recognized no
right but force and, if gulls of this kind are known and es-
teemed as scavengers, it is probably because such food is
easier to get and not because they will not take live food if
the opportunity offers. It was a predator within the limits of
its slow flight, physical strength, and build. It fought with
its own kind, with other species of gulls, and with other kinds
of birds. It squabbled and stole because that was the type
of life which suited it.

As I approached, my dragging paddle came near the bird.
It met it boldly with a forward motion of its head and a
mighty attack which placed the full action of its bill on the
thin cedar tip so that the marks on the paddle are still visible.
Then, perhaps realizing that fast retreat was impossible, it
remained by the side of the canoe as a cat might face a dog
in a doorway. It opened its bill, looked at me, and showed no
signs of yielding even though it was badly crippled. The
water close to shore was so free from wind that I could see
the reflections of the bird and the cattails. We watched each
other for a moment. I wished the bird no harm; on the con-
trary, I wished it all the good luck it so badly needed, and so
I left it. As I went around the little point where the canal
opened into the bay I saw the bird still watching me, perhaps
with some glimmer of an idea that the canoe and its occupant
had been faced and vanquished.

For several trips after that I always saw the bird indus-
triously covering the shore margins, working busily, picking
up small pieces of this and that, determined to live, and put-
ting out the effort to achieve that determination, afraid of
nothing, yielding to nothing. I never saw another gull near it.

92 Union Bay

I never heard any calls by it or by the gulls which passed.
I have noticed that, although the glaucous-winged gulls do
much flocking and nesting in colonies, they are not con-
cerned with the welfare of their kind as the crows appear to
be. In full possession of its strength, this bird would have
been a member of the gull fraternity, but in its present condi-
tion it apparently had no standing and, if badly injured, it
was barely possible that it might have been destroyed by
fellow gulls as they have been known to destroy wounded
birds of other kinds. But whatever the reason, it continued
its lonesome course along the shore, and in only the small
section which it considered sufficient to maintain it. I suspect
there was little difficulty in finding food. There were seeds-
concentrated pellets of nourishment— of the loosestrife and
other plants, there were cattails whose stalks crawled with
insects, and there was much succulent vegetation. The per-
petual industry of the bird indicated that its food habits were
flexible enough to accept the items which were plentiful.

One day, some weeks after, I saw the gull in the water
but did not get near it. The following week end, I ap-
proached it slowly so as not to put it into unnecessary flight.
It had progressed more rapidly than I thought— perhaps it
had made trial flights on days when I had not been there,
or possibly my presence gave it the incentive to rely again
on the injured wing, for it rose easily and slowly. I last saw it
on its way to join the gulls resting at the north end of the bay.
The dogs which visited the marsh might have made an
interesting news story. They ran and romped and did not
hesitate to barge through the muddy wet places so that their
owners must have been quite unhappy when the dogs arrived
home with their coats wet and matted. Their energy seemed
like that of small boys, and, to many, their continual visits
appeared pleasing and innocent. But the canoehouse mana-
ger had this idea about them: dogs, and particularly hunting
dogs, should not be running through such places at any time,

The White Pigeon 93

and especially in the nesting season. I agreed with him. I
thought they added one more burden to the always harassed
marsh life and did much damage. I am quite sure they did
no killing but they covered all but the very wettest areas in
the marsh, and, in addition to preventing many ground birds
from nesting, probably broke up many nests that contained
eggs. I suspected that their masters, many of whom prided
themselves on their sportsmanship, had little idea of the ex-
tent of the damage done by their pets. These dogs may have
been like those of the range areas which ran without the
knowledge of their owners and attacked sheep. I wondered,
too, how such freedom would react when they were taken
into the field in open season. I fancied that the dogs which
refused to stand properly, and which broke and ran down
the field with birds scattering on every side, were such free-
running and poorly disciplined animals. One trio— two setters
and an Airedale terrier— visited the marsh often, and when
they began plunging through the cattails and bushes, their
progress, aided by the keen noses of the setters and the in-
dustry of the Airedale, was effective enough to send a con-
stant stream of ground birds into flight. The only places in
which a duck could nest safely were those surrounded by
water so deep that they must be approached by swimming.

An inspection of my notes constantly adds to the evidence
that many of the small but interesting incidents which oc-
curred in the marsh are directly due to the closeness of that
important ecological factor, man. He built the ship canal and
sent his vessels from over the world through it, he populated
the adjacent shores with home owners and business people,
college students and professors. This impact has made any-
thing possible. It would not surprise me to see a Manx cat
hunting in the grass, or to see a mute swan sail majestically
along by the shore.

The other day a churning and splashing attracted my
attention to the ship canal in time to see a miniature of a

94 Union Bay

Mississippi River stern-wheeler chugging along as stolidly
as if it were on its regular run. Where it came from or what
it was used for, I have no idea. I have mentioned it only to
illustrate my point that a man need be surprised at nothing.
Parrots, once residents of the South Seas, and coypus, fur
bearers from South America, are always a possibility— in fact
both of them have been reported although I have not seen
them personally. The live things which men keep in their
homes, or on their farms, or in museums, for food, fur, or
entertainment may escape. Where will they find a better
refuge than in such a spot? The sight of a bird three feet high,
with a blue bill, pink legs, and a white neck and black body,
would not astonish me. I would realize that it was something
that had escaped from the Woodland Park Zoo. An Indian
canoe on the canoehouse float did not make me think that a
native war was imminent. It had been shipped in for exhibi-
tion purposes and somebody had been curious enough to
want to try it out. A feathered arrow half buried in the bank
would not alarm me, for there was an archery butt a short
distance away and I would know that somebody had over-
shot the mark in a trial flight.

It is not only the living things and mechanical devices
propelled by man that have appeared, but inanimate con-
trivances as well. I never knew what might float into the area.
A close inspection of some strange object bobbing among
the rushes of the bay was always worth while. It might be a
simple thing, but I found that I could always enjoy the
simple if I took time to peer behind it and try to glimpse the
complexity in the background. A crow flapped from a plank
near a white object which floated on the water. At first I
thought it a dead gull which the crow was checking as a
food possibility, but I saw the crow's presence was purely
accidental for the floating object was a doll, neatly con-
structed, with unbreakable head and eyes which closed. Its
paint, still bright, indicated a short stay in the water. It had

The White Pigeon 95

been windblown and had floated from a passing boat or from
one of the houses on the lake. How did the child lose it? By
its accidental dropping or by that inexplicable desire to
throw something away which often comes to children? Per-
haps it was only one of a dozen toys and would not be missed.
Whatever the reason, here it was bobbing up and down on
the rushes, its white dress greened by the contact, and look-
ing very much out of place. I think that the little girl to
whom I gave it still cherishes that water waif.

On another occasion, I discovered a model sailboat, four-
teen inches in length, sloop-rigged, freshly painted, and in
excellent condition. It had evidently come in on a good wind,
for it was upright and might have continued indefinitely had
it not run headlong into the shore where I found it moving
up and down in the gentle wavelets. It bore no name or iden-
tification but the boy to whom I gave it now calls it the
Dauntless.

Once I saw white objects on the water which I thought
were terns, for no other white bird that visits the marsh
rides so high. At a distance they floated as lightly as floating
bubbles, which they proved to be. They were toy balloons
which had been released at the football game the day before
and had landed on the shore and water of the marsh. Where,
but in this city marsh, would things which looked like white
terns prove to be toy balloons?

The list of flotsam grew: rubber balls, large and small,
several more dolls, two model airplanes in bad condition,
canoe paddles, a life preserver jacket, a dinghy complete with
oars, fishing plugs which I found firmly attached to willows,
a lunch tightly and efficiently wrapped in oiled paper and in
perfect shape, and inflated inner tubes. Also I found another
class of articles, bottles, in numbers which several times ex-
ceeded the combined aggregate of all other objects.

Bottles came constantly under my observation, bottles of
all types and for all purposes— beer, gin, Scotch, bourbon,

96 Union Bay

and coke. Some still contained the corks and floated high.
Others, uncorked, had shipped water so that often only the
necks were above water. I saw them in almost every con-
ceivable location: in small hidden inlets which could have
been reached only by a series of varying winds, each of
which pushed them to a turn where they remained until a
wind from another quarter would carry them a little farther.

They rested on the flats where the shorebirds congregated,
on logs where high water had left them stranded, and some-
times in the forked branches of some low hanging willow. I
assumed they came from the boats which constantly moved
through the canal, for there was almost no picnicking along
the shores, and I had seen some bottles tossed from passing
ships. Also I noticed that they were more plentiful after
holidays when many boats had left their moorings, a time
when the marsh shores were deserted because everybody was
taking longer trips.

As I made my rounds and looked at the collection, I won-
dered if a report of their numbers and kinds would have any
value for statistical purposes, and whether a weekly count
would be any sort of index to total consumption in such
fields. For so many boats, so many bottles of this, that, and
the other. I marveled at the total absence of wine bottles.
Were yachtsmen of so sturdy a breed that they scorned the
less potent wine? Or was its absence explainable by some
other factor? Would it pay the vintners to check closely this
ominous situation? Perhaps this local sampling of taste might
be accurate enough to use as a substitute for an expensive
general survey.

It must be understood that my interest in bottles was not
because I personally was concerned with such figures but
because their presence in the marsh was often a source of
great annoyance to me. I would find a subject which I par-
ticularly wanted to photograph in its natural surroundings.
But how could the surroundings be considered natural when,

The White Pigeon 97

within a foot of the bird, there stood one or more beer bottles
with labels plainly showing? Had the publisher overlooked
the presence of the containers and used my photographs, he
would have unquestionably held me responsible for the com-
plaints of the drys who might charge that the picture was
published to show that even the birds enjoyed that particular
brand. I would have been attacked by all the branches of
the liquor interests: the hard liquor people because beer
alone was advertised; the beer barons because a particular
brew was mentioned to the exclusion of all other beers. That,
I wanted to avoid. Consequently, though I made no attempt
to police the marsh in general, I did make a practice when I
found a bottle in certain spots favored by birds, of pressing
the top of the bobbing container gently with my paddle tip,
and holding the tip there until the cessation of gurgles and
grunts indicated that the bottle was full of water and ready
to join the others which must almost pave the bottom of the
bay.

It may be that, some time in the remote future, workmen
excavating in the filled land where the marsh once stood,
will strike this stratum and make a collection that will be
representative of the glass containers of this period. And if
the savants enter into the discussion, as they undoubtedly
will, there will be many a learned theory propounded to ex-
plain why and how these containers came to be distributed
with such regularity over so large a place.

The Track Near the Marsh

S + I SELDOM ALLOWED RAIN AND

weather to hinder me if conditions in the marsh justified my
canoe trips, but after I had paddled through two miles of
canals without seeing anything of particular interest I de-
cided to stop traveling and spend the rest of the afternoon
watching the rule wrens. No wildlife in the cove greeted me—
the place was quiet and apparently deserted. I waited ten
minutes for a bird to perch on a cattail and begin its song.
The only sound came from the striking of the rain drops on
the foliage; the only motion was made as the drops stirred
the water into rings. Then I thought: if the tule wrens, with
all their enthusiasm for the place and all their zealousness in
its defense, have temporarily taken to cover there is no
reason for my staying any longer.

I put up the canoe and started for my car, but when I
passed the stadium the sight of a few people at the ticket
windows reminded me that a track meet was scheduled. I
like track meets. Inaction and not weather had made me
leave the marsh. There would be plenty of action here. Why
not stop for awhile at the meet? I did.

I found conditions on the field as I had expected: puddles

98

•

The Track Near the Marsh

99

'~'*$B$ffi''t

and strips of water covered the track, the runways for the
jumps and pole vault were slick, and the weights and javelins
required careful wiping each time they were used. The few
spectators who had shown enough enthusiasm to come
looked hopefully at the clouds, but the sight of gulls drifting
in strong southwest air currents made me quite certain that
the rain would continue and the wind strengthen.

I stood near the top of the stadium so that I could see
in all directions. The open end faced Union Bay, the east end
of the ship canal, and Lake Washington with which the canal
connected. The foreground view was clear enough so that
small things such as children's scooters on the lawns of the
residences were plainly visible, but the distant view was
shut off and a visitor would have no idea that beyond were
the foothills and the Cascade Range. Small power boats con-
stantly moved along in the canal, and just before the meet a
hardy oarsman in a trim single scull rowed rapidly along in

100 Union Bay

the squall of rain which struck him. It was becoming a day
that waterfowl liked, and through my field glasses I could
now and then see a mallard or the white and black color of
a bufnehead, and once I distinguished the imposing flight
of several Canada geese, probably the five which had been
resting for the past ten days in Gadwall Cove.

The few spectators near me made uncomplimentary re-
marks about the weather, but rain and wind did not bother
me as I was dressed for the colder work of paddling. Nobody
would have chosen this sort of a day for a track meet. Max-
imum speed and strength in sport are possible only when
weather conditions permit perfect control of body tempera-
ture, and when there is no undue chill to affect heavily
strained muscles. Nevertheless, the practicing track squads
made the best of it: they threw the javelin, put the shot,
pole vaulted, and jumped to get the feel of the track and of
the day. Runners in their heavy sweat outfits, necks protected
by a towel, kept in motion. To chill was serious.

I looked around the stadium. I knew it well for I had lived
in the city a long time and had gone to football games when
I was a boy in grade school. And during the past year I had
learned about the stadium's internal structure, too, for the
man in charge of the various athletic fields had taken me
through the tunnels and underparts of the construction to
show me how many birds nested there— swallows which had
daubed their clay brackets, rude but useful nests,, in the
niches and even on the light globes. There they raised their
young and emerged to feed over the fields and water, a
choice which ordinarily insured them an ample supply of
food. The wild things had not been hesitant in using these
athletic grounds for their own purposes: the baseball field
as a parade ground for gulls in winter, the roof of the athletic
pavilion for a place of assembly when snow covered the
ground, the sides of the building as a nest site for cliff swal-
lows, and the stadium recesses as a summer home for barn

The Track Near the Marsh 101

and violet-green swallows. The birds came without invita-
tion, they adapted themselves to conditions and, if un-
molested, remained.

The few spectators present when the meet began would
not have filled one of the thirty sections. The first call was
for the javelin, the shot put, and the mile run. I recognized
the local University men who gathered at the stations for I
had seen much of them that spring. Construction work in the
stadium had required the removal of the fence on the bay
side so that my walk to the canoehouse took me directly past
the field where the track squad, all clad in garments much
resembling the fleecelined underwear worn by their grand-
dads (and grandmothers), practiced daily to perfect them-
selves in their various specialties. Once in the habit, I seldom
failed to stop and watch proceedings. I liked the various field
trials and the attitude of the contestants. Their patience
astounded me: imagine the infinite perseverance required to
spend hours in properly grasping the discus, in extending the
arm and pivoting with just the proper speed and motion so
that, when the turn was completed, the weight could be di-
rected and propelled with that extreme, perfection of form
which would add the few feet or inches necessary to eclipse
competition. I used to watch the runners in their starting
positions, feet against the blocks, body bent, fingers at the
line, each muscle and nerve tensed for an instantaneous
getaway at the report of the gun.

I liked particularly to visit the track after a few hours in
the marsh. There I had seen creatures whose great concern
was with the maintenance of life and whose satisfactions
were part of that concern. Perhaps my day had been partly
devoted to w7atching a mallard hen lead her V-shaped convoy
along the margins of the cattails, excitedly reminding a lag-
gard duckling that the only safe place in the entire canal was
directly behind her. She worked eighteen hours a day to
bring up her brood properly and safely, but as I began to

102 Union Bay

recognize each little family group and saw the shrinkage
from an initial start of around a dozen down to ten, then to
seven or eight, and finally to only five or six trailing behind
her I realized that, while most people saw just the senti-
mental picture of a duck and her happy little family, its up-
bringing was grim business which bore heavily on the young.

On the track and at the field events I met entirely different
conditions. There the competition did not concern itself
directly with life but with the sports of life. There the contest
was for the purpose of satisfying man's desire for physical
supremacy— his wish to run faster, to hurl the javelin farther,
or to jump higher or a greater distance, than his competitor.

I had only to look about the field that rainy day to justify
this comparison between the track and the marsh. The cliff
swallows fluttered about and dipped into the damp clay to
obtain material for their nests in the window niches of the
athletic pavilion. Directly in front of me runners practiced
starts, so there was a continual bending and starting, bending
and starting— a continuity of effort not connected with sub-
sistence but with the hope that the resulting skill might en-
able them to beat their competitors, if only by a split second.
Just outside the fence, a pair of newly arrived flycatchers sat
on the tops of two willows and hurled themselves into space,
not to break a record, but because they had a void in their
tummies which they wished to fill.

A slightly freshening wind brought in an increasing amount
of rain as the three milers— one local and two visitors— pulled
off their sweat shirts and stood in their shorts and track shirts.
I wondered how those cold rain drops and chill breezes af-
fected them. The gun sent them down their lanes with a
splashing that could have been mistaken for the beginning
of a swimming event. The fit and condition of track shoes
must have been an important factor on this day for the first
few strides on sodden ground filled them with moisture and
made traveling difficult. I noticed that one of the men, ap-

The Track Near the Marsh 103

parently to forestall any accident, had taped his shoes around
the insteps.

The runners had ticked off one lap when I heard a voice
at my side. I turned and saw a young engineer with whom
I frequently played golf, the one friend I might have ex-
pected to run across on such a day, a fellow who considered
it a crime to spend the week end anywhere but in the open.
He was a man who concentrated on golf for his own exercise,
and on the competitive games of his old college for the rest
of his diversion. A waterproof hat and an army raincoat com-
pletely covered him.

"I thought your contract called for all Saturday afternoon
in the marsh," he said jokingly. "What are you doing here?"

I watched the runners, still closely bunched, round the
second lap. Then I replied:

"There's not enough activity to justify canoeing in such
weather. I can use my glasses and see most of the marsh
population from here."

The uniforms of the milers turned to dirty gray and then
to black. Mud covered their legs and track pants. A visitor
led, another followed, and then came the local man still in
^is stride but with an ever-widening gap showing that he was
at the top of his capabilities. And that is the way the race
ended.

My friend philosophically accepted the outcome and
quoted records to show that it was to be expected. He knew
the local, state, and northwestern records for the event. His
memory was as sharp as a quiz-kid's. He knew the home
towns of the runners and much about their high school his-
tory. He said:

"This is only one event. Wait till our boys get going." Then
he added: "Why do you waste so much time in those bul-
rushes? You won't find anything like this in your messy
marsh."

The javelin throw had begun at the east and open end of

104 Union Bay

the stadium. The shafts sailed out in a long flight and quiv-
ered as they struck. The distances seemed great though I
was too far away to judge adequately. One shaft pierced the
sod in a location which I recognized, so that, without think-
ing, I said:

"That javelin landed just where we found the young kill-
deers last year."

"Where you found what?" asked my companion.

"Oh, some birds." I did not explain further.

In the quiet that followed I thought of the young killdeers.
The old birds had built a nest the year before at the foot of
one of the posts which stood close to the track used for the
distance runs. A shallow depression held four spotted eggs,
and for two weeks the birds had feigned distress or cried in
anger so vociferously that almost all of the hundreds who
passed knew of the existence of the eggs. Nobody molested
them. I was asked to photograph the new arrivals in the nest
but their stay, as is usual with killdeers, was so short that
they had left before we reached the spot. Knowing that they
would not be far away, we searched the field, a quest which
would have been in vain had the old birds refrained from
swooping down each time we got warm. Finally the boy
with me found them, tiny bundles of brown and white down
with stout legs and enormous dark-colorepl feet. We put them
side by side and took pictures. From time to time they
uttered their thin peeps so loudly that the old birds circled
and berated us. Thinking that the young would shdw better
on a lighter background than on sod, I placed them on my
handkerchief, a practice which invariably gets me in trouble
at home, for the resulting stains are not calculated to make a
laundress happy. Before we had walked ten yards after
finishing the pictures the old birds had rejoined the young
and all was serene again. It was well that the killdeers were
not there while the javelins were flying, for a score of them
struck within a small spot close to the scene of our discovery.

The Track Near the Marsh 105

The progress of the meet made my friend very unhappy.
He said:

"It's a shame that the rain slows things up so. Nothing
goes right in this weather. You might as well have stayed in
the marsh."

But I didn't agree. I liked watching the way the men han-
dled themselves in the bad weather. I never thought that
races could be run so smoothly under such handicaps.

A mallard hen flew directly over the stadium. The crowd
lifted imaginary guns and popped at the bird as the grade
school boys slay imaginary rustlers and bandits with their
imitation six-shooters. The duck moved on steadily and dis-
appeared in the cattails directly east of the stadium where
beavers had built and occupied a lodge. Between showers I
could hear the singing of spring birds now in the area— red-
wings giving their full song from the reeds, a towhee monot-
onously repeating its short warble, and a white-crowned
sparrow whose oh-gee-kitty-did-scare-me song was especially
conspicuous because I was hearing it for the first time in the
season. The violet-green swallows had ceased their twittering
and vanished, probably because there was little insect life
out in such weather. The white bills of the coots on the water
showed clearly through my glasses. Rains did not disturb
coots for they fed on bottom growth which they obtained by
diving.

The discus throwers and pole vaulters went about their
business, apparently little affected by the downpour. The
home squad lost but my friend was not downcast. The run-
ning events, he said, would put us in the lead.

Gulls soared high above us. Perhaps a hundred of them
slowly breasted the wind which seemed much stronger at
that height. After they had progressed a short distance, they
ceased flying and let the gale hurl them back to where they
had started. Then they would repeat the process or swing
in great circles which took them higher and higher. They

106 Union Bay

were strong flyers with an instinct for handling themselves
in such situations. It was not food but just the desire for
flight which kept them out in such weather.

The hurdlers warmed up in different ways, then ran
smoothly, cleared the obstacles with only a few attendant
clicks, and finished with two local runners leading.

Above, the gulls continued their movements in the storm
and I could hear the minor shrill of their cries. Only one up-
land bird, a robin, sang in the increasing rainstorm. The
skies grew darker, the waves on the bay higher, and the sin-
gle sculler had sought the shelter of the crewhouse. The
spectators no longer looked for a break in the downpour but
clustered in one section like stock bunched and waiting for
the pasture gates to open. My partner liked the way the meet
was now going. Well protected by his rain clothes and happy
that the home team was ahead, he made this two-edged
remark:

"Some doings. You can't see anything like this in the
marsh."

I figured that I had made a pretty good trade for such
a day. The canoe would have been wet, the rain hard to
buck. Soon I would have been damp and cold. In the stands
I was dry, and by moving about I could keep quite warm.
And so I remained, through the jumps, the two mile, and the
concluding relay which put the local team forty points ahead
of their opponents.

The crowd broke up quickly. My friend's last remark was:

"Rain or no rain, it's been a great day. I'll call you up for
the next one. As I've told you twice, there's nothing like
this in the marsh. You'll have to agree to that."

I did agree, but not in the way he thought. I had thor-
oughly enjoyed the contests of the afternoon, and my friend
had a right to be proud of the local team's performance but,
after all, compared to what I saw on every trip to the marsh
it was the work of nonprofessionals. And as one of the great

The Track Near the Marsh 107

golf amateurs had said a few days before: the good average
professional is about five strokes better than the good average
amateur. The principle is true everywhere and the difference
varies only in percentage. The men had performed with the
maximum grace and skill to be expected from those who were
not constantly spurred on by the relentless necessity for
food and the successful avoidance of one's enemies. The per-
formances I saw in the marsh were not by amateurs but by
creatures which had practiced professionalism from birth.
These wild animals were not like the collegiate amateurs
who could, if they felt their inability to perform properly,
still continue as a substitute or a member of a secondary
team, or even quit altogether. There was no substitute for
efficiency in the marsh, no place where the inefficient could
go, no hope that it could exist on a plane lower than that of
the others of its kind. Inefficiency meant the quick extinction
of the individual, the loss of its life through alert predators,
or it meant starvation through inability to compete for food
and territory.

I thought of the high hurdlers who had put on such a
beautiful demonstration under the trying conditions of wet
winds, water-covered lanes, and slippery footing— everything
that could be expected under the standards of men, but not to
be compared to the ordinary daily feeding evolutions of the
black swifts whose food is taken entirely in flight. Their life
away from the nest is given entirely to the executions of
tremendous swings, abrupt turns, and all the other maneuvers
necessary for the capture of fast-flying victims. These birds
spend their active life in this pursuit, travel hundreds of miles
each day with a skill that I have never seen excelled by any
other thing, and stop only to feed their young or when night
prevents further hunting. They are professionals whose life
depends on their athletic ability.

The marsh can present nothing exactly like the powerful
throw that had won the javelin event, but what would my

108 Union Bay

friend have thought of that living javelin, the kingfisher,
which regularly launches itself from considerable heights to
pick up almost certainly the minnow beneath the surface of
the water? And there is that self-guided bomb, the osprey,
which can drop from heights of a quarter of a mile and
strike the fish necessary for food to maintain itself and its
family.

As I walked along to the gate I watched the contestants,
the home squad happy, the visitors downcast, not so much
by the defeat as by the fact that they had been badly out-
classed. Fine looking fellows all, strong, intelligent, and in
splendid condition. But it was their intelligence and not their
physical ability that made them superior to the birds and the
wild mammals. My friend had been right when he said that
I would not see anything in the marsh like the contests I had
seen in the stadium. Grace, as demonstrated by the animals,
is unknown to man. Man is physically incapable of duplicat-
ing the speed and accuracy of such movements as the spring
of the mink, the dive of the otter, the right-about turns of
the weasel, the jumping ability of some of the mice. Perhaps
in the ages when man had been forced to depend for food
and survival on physical adroitness, he, too, had been an
athletic professional adequately using his own physical
equipment to compete with other animals. But he has de-
pended more and more on mechanical contrivances designed
by his own ingenuity until now his speed can be surpassed
by almost every creature in the marsh and his strength and
ability are inferior.

On every trip to the marsh I saw spectacular skill demon-
strated, not by sport-loving amateurs, but by professionals
who must win their events or perish, sometimes immediately,
but always eventually. When a Cooper hawk dashed into a
flock of chickadees there was no opportunity for them to
warm up for the getaway, to place themselves in specially
prepared positions and in convenient starting devices. An

The Track Near the Marsh 109

immediate start was essential, not to win cups or for the
cheers of the spectators, but to save the life of the starter.
The hawk, to live, must have a victim, and that victim would
be the bird which in its training had failed to attain the
wariness and speed necessary to avoid this constant menace
by a predator which made its attack doubly efficient by sur-
prise and high speed. It was penalties such as these that
made professionals of these marsh contestants.

Introducing Something New.

JO

M W* ONE DAY WHILE IN THE MARSH I

speculated on the many methods by which species of plant
and animal life could be introduced into the area. There
is no isolation but, on the contrary, entry is possible by a
dozen methods: an extensive Arboretum containing plants
from all over the world borders one side of the marsh, many
fine private gardens touch the lake so that cast-off plants or
seeds might easily be wind-blown or water-carried. Salt water
is reached by the short ship canal, streams enter the lake, a
railroad skirts the shore, foreign and domestic ships pass
right through the marsh area. The ten dozen or more species
of visiting birds might bring in seeds. The possibility of new
introductions appears unlimited, but in reality there have
been so few that it is possible to discuss them in one chapter.
Even if the song of tule wrens had been absent on the day
I made these notes, the commotion I found in Gadwall Cove
would have informed me that the season was spring. The
condition that existed there was caused by one of the intro-
duced species. Motionless trees and bushes and the quiet
waters of the open bay indicated the total absence of breeze,
but from the shallows came the sound of water. Not the drip-

110

Introducing Something New

111

flvvyes*

ping through the trees after a shower, or the gentle purring
of water over stream riffles, or the sharp break of waves on
a gravelly beach, or the light splashing of children as they
built play houses, but a strange sort of intermittent action,
now light and quiet, then heavier and accompanied by de-
cisive sweeps which stirred the surface and put small areas
into quick swirling passage similar to that caused by a
strongly propelled paddle. The disturbances came not only
from the center of the baylet but from the margins where
the bulrushes pushed out into the water. If I looked in any
direction and waited a moment I could see rushes put in
motion by heavy objects which passed and stirred the soft
ooze of the bottom into muddy whirls. Now and then a
muffled blow struck the canoe and jolted it as if a small log
had been hit. Wavelets, splashes, and water rings appeared

112 Union Bay

and produced sounds of varying intensity and quality. The
sounds vaguely resembled those which cattle made when
they crossed shallow water, but there were no animals to
be seen. Strangely enough, the splashes and movements had
little effect on the ducks, coots, and grebes, and only when
the activity came very near to them did they move away.

I knew that this commotion often went on in spring for
hours at a time. I never observed that the time of day or
weather conditions affected it in any way. The presence of
the canoe was ignored if it moved slowly, but if I stopped
the activity close to me also stopped. The cause of the dis-
turbance would not puzzle a newcomer for long, because at
irregular but frequent intervals I saw the exposed upper
surfaces of heavily built fish whose clumsy structure, brown-
ish-yellow backs, and coarse scales were those of the species
known as carp. They threshed about, ran alongside each
other, ploughed through the reeds of the shallow water,
sometimes submerged, often partly exposed, but always stir-
ring up the mud and throwing water with the powerful
sweep of their tails. Frequently a third of their bodies showed
as they moved along, and at other times only the movement
of the water indicated that they were still in the vicinity.

By then their purpose was apparent to me, as it would
have been to any other observer. They were there for their
annual spring spawning; the females were depositing their
eggs; the males were fertilizing them with their milt as thev
were laid. This was the annual gathering for the purpose of
perpetuating the species. All energies were concentrated on
this particular phase of their lives. Feed and rest would be
forgotten, and until the egg depositing was completed the
shallow spots of the marsh would be the scene of activity
which would begin slowly, increase to a stirring maximum,
and then abruptly die away. The older fish would leave, the
young would be hatched in this shallow water where they
would be comparatively safe from most of their enemies, and

Introducing Something New 113

although there would be considerable mortality among the
new arrivals, enough of them would survive to leave a com-
fortable margin. As they grew older, the young would seek
deeper water and begin to compete with the varieties which
the anglers consider more desirable.

I must here confess that the carp is one of the few fish
against which I am prejudiced. This is not a scientific judg-
ment but a personal one. They are not a native fish, nor are
they native to Europe from where they came to us, but
originated in Asia. There is usually some appealing attribute
in almost every living creature: courage, beauty, graceful-
ness, gaminess, or the like. But I find all of these lacking in
the carp. I think my early experience had something to do
with it. I first saw carp in the East where newly arrived
immigrants used to cut pieces of potato for bait and fish for,
and catch, many carp where foul sewers entered into streams.
The fishermen were glad to catch the fish and apparently
esteemed them highly. And although the fish may have been
excellent I have never seen even a picture of a carp without
visualizing the sewer at the foot of State Street in the little
town I used to visit and the sight of these fish as they were
pulled from the filth below. Aside from my distaste for what
was apparently one of their preferred habitats, I did not like
their coarse dirty appearance or the fact that, as compared
with the perch, bass, trout, pickerel, and other middle west-
ern fish we considered desirable, they were ugly and shape-
less. The carp has always been considered a coarse but popu-
lar food and mention of the fare of the Romans and of the
Middle Ages seldom excluded this fish. The lakes and the
ponds of the noblemen and the monasteries were well stocked
with it, and since it is sturdy, easily adaptable, and exceed-
ingly tenacious of life, it has probably supplied much highly
esteemed food to the people of the world. But in the United
States it has been accepted by few as a good table fish. Its
introduction therefore has proved to be a mistake because in

114 Union Bay

many cases it has replaced trie more popular native varieties.

Indeed, the history of these fish in the United States has
always appeared to me to be a potent argument against the
bringing in of foreign species. Excepting for the importation
of the European ( Hungarian ) and the chukar partridges and
of the ring-necked (Chinese) pheasant, which three are
generally conceded to have been unobjectionable, I can
think of no other introductions that have not been fruitful
of evil. Had the carp been confined to land-locked areas
where it could have been absolutely controlled and where
native fish did not do well, then it might have been a valu-
able contribution to low-cost food. But it possessed the vital-
ity and stamina of many imported species and, once put into
our waters, it has spread over a vast area where, as it is not
well regarded as food and has no beauty or other value, it
has become a real pest. Certainly it has no place in the
streams of the Pacific Northwest which are capable of rais-
ing salmon and trout and bass. Nevertheless, it now infests
many such streams. It has not only affected the supply of
food for game fish but it has, particularly on the Columbia
River, destroyed much bird food. It has the pig-like habit of
rooting up the bulbs of certain of the water plants, and to
such an extent that, in some localities, the wild fowl have
curtailed or ceased their concentrations due to lack of suit-
able food, plentiful before the arrival of the carp.

This is but one illustration of the folly of unwise intro-
ductions, a practice which has been followed by national ill
results. The shipping of the jack rabbit from the United
States to Australia, the muskrat to Austria, and the English
sparrow and the starling from England to the United States
has had most unfortunate consequences. The gypsy moth,
brought from the Old World to America in an unsuccessful
attempt to produce silk, ended as a terrific tree pest. The
bringing of the coypu from South to North America is a
recent event which promises to be a mistake of great im-

Introducing Something New 115

portance. All of these transplantings were done with high
purpose, but all are living examples of the evil consequences
of the importing of an animal without the long-established
checks which keep it in its proper place in the country where
it originated.

The small number of these new species perhaps justifies
the conclusion that these introductions are not so simple as
they might appear. The dropping of seeds by birds does not
necessarily mean that the seeds will establish themselves.
They must land in the proper places and in soil in which
they are fitted to grow. Even in favorable spots they may be
picked up by rodents or birds, or washed away by spring
rains, or carried beyond the water depths they can tolerate.
If they succeed in sprouting, the well-established vegetation
about them may choke them promptly or the tender growth
may be eaten by animals which overlooked the seed. Seeds
which enter the area by floating may be obstructed by
aquatic growth and never reach land. Success for one season
does not mean that the plant will continue to grow. It may
fail to set seed, the seed may be washed away by the fall
rains or eaten by the busy nesting birds and their young.
The whole plant may become part of a muskrat's meal. It has
been said that not one trial in a thousand or a million will
prosper— the only answer is that there are enough thousands
or millions of trials so that now and then one does succeed.

I do not refer to the dozens of plants which I have seen
bloom for a year and then disappear, nor do I have in mind
the weeds which are everywhere and which invade all new or
burned-over ground. The system of seed dispersal of these
invaders apparently is so effective and their tenacity so great
that their appearance, growth, and survival can be regarded
as almost a certainty. The marsh also displays each year new
pinks and blues and whites, obviously garden escapes, which
have enough pioneer spirit to make a brave start but lack the
strength and adaptability to endure.

116 Union Bay

I refer to established introductions only, those which ap-
parently have become a permanent part of the marsh flora.
In the period I have been a marsh observer I have watched
the extension of only four such plants, the history of which
may prove to be of interest.

One of these plants, bird's-foot trefoil, is a member of the
pea family and originally came from Europe, first arriving
in the eastern states and later here. Its pleasing yellow, or
yellow and red, flowers grow on numerous stems which come
from the same root. The leaves are divided into three leaflets.
The plant is a perennial and, once started, is hard to stop.
Whether it spread overland to the West from the East or
whether that important method, ship's ballast, brought it
directly to the West from Europe is not known. Neither have
I been able to determine how early it appeared in other parts
of the state. One spring I found a plant or two on the banks
of the ship canal in the marsh. When I checked it and found
that it was an extremely troublesome weed with the habit
of dominating much of the territory it entered, I determined
to uproot it and see if it were possible, by early action, to
keep it out of the marsh. I pulled these first plants, but when,
in the following spring, I found it in a dozen spots, and
learned that it was established elsewhere in the state, I made
no further attempt to control it. One botanist refers to its
habitat as "Waste places, in a few instances invading fields. "
This would place it as a plant of wide tolerance because in
the marsh it grows in places which are submerged for a few
weeks or more in spring. I hear sometimes of its establish-
ment in other districts, and doubtless we of the marsh are
about to witness the invasion of a plant, which, although
rather pretty and unobjectionable at present, may become
extremely annoying in certain places.

Another plant whose entry I have observed with more
complacency is the yellow or sword flag, an iris with leaves
wider and of a lighter green than those of a cattail. The

Introducing Something New 117

flower is bright yellow with a delicate texture. A native of
Europe like the trefoil, it is of more aristocratic origin, for it
did not arrive in steerage but is unquestionably an escape
from the gardens of Seattle where it has been cultivated. My
attention was first called to it by a botanist whom I was
taking on a tour of inspection of the marsh. On this early
spring day the cattails were still brown but the much broader
leaves of this iris formed a clump which stood waist-high
and green. It brought forth lovely flowers a few weeks later
and my friend placed it as Iris pseudacorus, a native of the
Old World. Its subsequent history shows clearly the hazards
of such casual introductions and the narrow margins which
lie between failure and success. A short time after it bloomed,
the muskrats found its leaves to their liking. Before they had
found other equally, or more, palatable food they had left so
little vegetation that the plant seemed doomed. Yet it put
out more leaves and began to grow and prosper until the
heavy fall rains raised the lake level sufficiently to pull its
roots nearly out of the bottom, with the result that when
there was a breeze it would rise and fall with the waves as
if it were floating free. In some way it again became anchored
firmly, successfully survived the winter, withstood another
attack of the muskrats, flowered plentifully, and since then
it has increased in size until the plant or group of plants is
now more than a yard in diameter. This year I have discov-
ered, with much pleasure, that there are now three more
stations so that the chance of its complete establishment is
much more certain. Only one thing might prevent this hand-
some yellow iris from becoming a permanent decoration in
the marsh— it is the first green to appear in the area and as
such it may be attacked severely each spring by the muskrats.
Another type of introduction, though less interesting than
the two preceding, was used in establishing the water lily in
the marsh. The canoehouse manager informs me that these
introduced lilies came from a small artificial basin of water

118 Union Bay

on the campus, called "Frosh Pond" because it was fre-
quently used for "dunking" freshmen. Lilies which had been
put into this pond so clogged it that they were all cleaned
out and dumped on the edge of the bay, from which many
of them were rescued and planted by the manager. They
started slowly, possibly because they were raided by the
muskrats, but some of them held on7 and now they fill the
spots considered most suitable and many other areas as well.

We thus have three growing adventives in the district,
each of which has arrived in a different way— the bird's-foot
trefoil probably in ballast, the iris by escape from cultivation,
and the water lily by direct introduction. Each promises to
play an increasingly important part; each, though the process
may not be apparent to the observer, is unquestionably com-
peting with other marsh plants.

A fourth plant, the loveliest in the marsh, has a local be-
ginning which is not altogether clear. In spite of its impres-
sive beauty and extremely wide distribution, nobody appears
to know how and just when it became established in the area.
The plant is known as the purple, or spiked, loosestrife, and
it now grows in swamps and wet places in many states of
the northern half of the United States. It is not native to the
United States but came from Europe where it is widely dis-
tributed and well known. It was established in the eastern
states and Canada long before it was known here. It may
have come to the West Coast from Europe or from the East.
There were only small patches when I first began canoeing
there, but now, next to the cattail, it dominates the area so
that in the blooming season the purple of its foot-long spikes
actually obscures, in many places, the foliage of the cattail.
The stems of this plant are square, or almost so, the leaves
opposite, or sometimes in whorls of three. The plants stand,
sometimes on wet ground, often in water a foot deep, and
massed so that their blooming frequently displays as much
as an acre of dark brilliance, set among the green of the cat-

Introducing Something New 119

tails. The drastic lowering and raising of the lake exceeds the
tolerance of the plant so that the margins constantly recede
when high water has been prolonged, and they return when
a lower level is maintained.

These examples show that plant changes, though infre-
quent, do take place in the marsh. But what about the mam-
mals? Are the changes of equal significance? I know of three.
One had taken place before my arrival, another occurred in
the past few years, while the third, if it has not taken place
already, will soon come and will greatly affect the local mam-
mal economy.

The first change, which affected the marsh and every other
area where it took place, was the arrival of the Norway, or
brown, rat. We do not know when this creature came to the
Northwest but we know how it arrived, for it was a traveler
and a constant, though unwelcome, guest on ships. It may
have been unloaded in material shipped to this port or it may
have walked ashore under its own power. Once here we
may be sure that it increased rapidly in numbers and began its
history of destruction. In considering this pest we have the
satisfaction of knowing that it came of its own volition and
was not introduced because somebody thought that it would
become a good house pet or that it could be used as a check
on some greater pest. There is little good about the brown
rat, for when a creature is at once a carrier of serious diseases,
a destroyer of tremendous quantities of raw and finished ma-
terial, a predator on many useful wild and domestic birds
and mammals, and withal a foul and unclean animal, there
seems to be nothing left in its favor. Locally, it overruns the
marsh and is probably its greatest predator, doing much
damage to the eggs and young of the ground-nesting birds.

The second mammal is the beaver, once a resident of the
entire Northwest, then almost eliminated by overlapping,
and now increasing in numbers. Its increase will pose many
problems in its relations with man. Its establishment in the

120 Union Bay

marsh may be only temporary, for as soon as the unprotected
trees are consumed it must move to other localities, or so
change its food habits that it will eat the smaller vegetation
of the marsh. It will be interesting to watch developments.

The third mammal is the coypu, a rodent brought from
South America with the intention of producing its fur, known
as nutria, on fur farms. For some reason the quality of furs
produced in this section has not compared favorably with
that produced in its native country and the furs did not bring
prices sufficient to justify the maintenance of the industry.
Animals have been released or have escaped. Now they are
beginning to appear in many places and the reports received
indicate much trouble in the future. They are said to be
raiders of domestic gardens and to be most destructive; they
do harm with their bank tunneling; and they may displace
the comparatively inoffensive muskrats which have long been
residents. Reports about them come in from new sections,
and it is feared that they will soon become a serious factor
for evil since they have been seen and have become estab-
lished but a few miles away.

As could naturally be expected, the greatest local changes
are in the bird life. There has been a steady shifting in the
register of marsh bird residents. Much of it has been due to
the increase in population in the district and to the different
conditions produced by that increase. The sooty and ruffed
grouse, once common, left when the trees were- cut. The
bluebirds and the woodpeckers have thinned out for the
same reason. The creepers and such visitors as the Townsend
solitaire are practically never seen. The Canada jay, the
camp robber of the lumbermen, has retired to the timbered
hills.

But all is not on the debit side. The California quail and
the ring-necked pheasant are heard in localities that used to
echo the spring hooting of the sooty grouse and the drum-
ming of the ruffed grouse. These birds find good shelter— the

Introducing Something New 121

pheasants in the brush-covered portions of the marsh and the
quail in the woods on the nearby hillside. The green heron
may be considered the most significant of the new visiting
species. The increase in the number and size of the cotton-
woods and willows probably accounts for the many flycatch-
ers whose spring singing may be heard over the marsh. The
russet-backed thrush has also been attracted by the tree
growth, but the meadowlarks which once sang at the north
end of the bay ceased their visits when the meadows disap-
peared. Each decided modification in the character of the
habitat produces some change in the birds which regularly
use it.

The shifts in the duck populations cannot easily be ex-
plained by mere change in habitat and have greatly puzzled
me. The increase in the number of baldpates has been so
marked that they have been a source of mild annoyance to
shore residents whose lawns they sometimes invade. The
wood duck, unreported in the area for years, was seen again
six or seven years ago and has been known to nest during at
least two years. It is my hope that residents on the lake will
build nesting boxes for them. The blue-winged teal, small
and handsome, and a rare visitor from east of the Cascade
Range, nests yearly. The shoveler, or spoonbill, the duck with
the huge bill, rarely seen in summer in the marsh, gives some
evidence of breeding here, for three pairs of birds were seen
during the last summer, although no young were reported.

All of this has been taking place in spite of the fact that
the area of the marsh is constantly diminishing through the
dumping of dirt and other material. A decrease in nesting
could be expected, but even the ever-present mallards have
shown no tendency that way and I have seen more young
broods than ever before. I am puzzled to know whether this
is just a local matter or whether, in some degree, it represents
general conditions. I would like to be able to give a positive
answer to questions such as these: Is the pressure for wild-

122 Union Bay

fowl nesting grounds getting a great deal more serious? Is
the nesting experience on protected areas better than in the
wilder but less protected areas? Will some other species tend
to nest closer to civilization as do our mallard and the eider
ducks in Scandinavian countries? Is it possible that there
might be an increase in the number of nonmigrating water-
fowl such as are now represented by the partly domesticated
mallards and by the Canada geese of our local Woodland
Park which stay year after year even though they have not
been pinioned? Are geese and other waterfowl accumulating
a memory, knowledge, or instinct which enables them to
avoid the shooting areas and to stop at the protected spots?
These are but a few questions which local conditions bring
to my mind.

The changes continue as the years pass. Some might be
foreseen if I were familiar with man's plans in the area-
plans for the lowering or raising of the water depth and for
the revisions of the marsh boundary. Some innovations will
be insignificant, as the appearance of a new and tiny blue
flower, or of an eastside turtle which could not be accounted
for until it was learned that it had been brought over by
students for laboratory examination and afterwards released.

Occasionally, quite accurate prophecies can be made.
Right now, the arrival of a new and rather undesirable bird
can be predicted. It is the starling. Various observers have
marked its progress as it, like the pioneers of the early nine-
teenth century, steadily pushed out for the West. It was seen
in eastern Washington and only recently one of the most reli-
able of our local field men has recorded it in the little town
of Bellevue, less than ten miles distant. We will not welcome
it any more than we welcomed the bird's-foot trefoil, but like
the trefoil, it will be here to stay, and we must be witnesses
to the effect, good or bad, that it will have on the local bird
population. But mankind cannot complain for it was man,

Introducing Something New 123

filled with the conceit of man, who brought it from Europe
to this country. And, after all, the white man himself is as
much an introduction to the bay as the coypu, the trefoil,
and the rat.

Arrowhead, Squaw's Toes, and
Other Things

11

M M 4> DIFFERENT ASPECTS OF THE MARSH

came to my mind from time to time. Some I had mulled over
often but to others I had given little attention. One of the
most insistent concerned the value of marsh products. How
much were they used and for what purpose? It appeared an
interesting nook to explore.

I was in the canoe and was just finishing a morning tour
of inspection of the marsh, a two-hour progression which
gave me a comfortable workout and took me to every nook
I wished to look over. Quiet normalcy marked this late July
day. I saw no newcomers, but when I heard the repeated
kidick call of a Virginia rail I turned to my old standbys, the
summer residents. This small bird, in spite of its qualifying
name, is found over much of the marsh territory of the
Pacific Northwest. The sound came from directly opposite
the canoe and challenged me to play a game of which I
never tired. Somewhere in the shelter of the cattail stalks
stood a ten-inch reddish bird with a long and rather slender
bill, a bird whose browns and grays blended well with the
marsh vegetation, a bird which preferred to skulk and hide
rather than fly, and which only occasionally came out into

124

^.IWYE*.

126 Union Bay

the sunlight of the marsh margins. My part in the game was
to sit quietly and scan methodically the spaces between the
cattails until often (though not always) I located the shoe-
button eye of the rail and then traced the outline of all its
parts which were not blocked out by the intervening growth.
Often when I discovered the bird it was just inches inside the
margin; sometimes it was in the very last visible depths of
the tangle. Although I frequently gave up the search with
the excuse that the bird was not visible, I always knew that
a black and beady eye was in the clear and watching every
move I made. This time, after I looked continuously for
about ten minutes, I could not locate it at all; even though
the bird twice uttered a distinct note as if to guide my search.
I had only one consolation: the tangle was so unusually
heavy that the chances against my winning were about ten
to one.

The growth on the bank was dense and so tall that I held
up my double-bladed paddle as a measure. Eight feet sepa-
rated the blade tips but the tallest of the cattails extended
three feet above them. The leaves moved slowly in the breeze
and rubbed with a soft continuous whisper. The bulrushes
across the narrow channel reached higher than any I had
ever seen and stopped just a foot below the cattails. In no
other place in the marsh did the growth reach such heights.
Only the closeness of the plants provided the support neces-
sary to keep them erect. As I looked about I thought of the
enormous tonnage of vegetation the marsh produced each
year.

I spoke to the canoehouse manager when I returned to
the float:

"You've been near marshes a good part of your life. Do
you know any uses for all the stuff that grows in one?"

"Sure. When we were kids in Minnesota, we dipped cattail
heads in coal oil and used them for torches. They made a

Arrowhead, Squaw's Toes, and Other Things 127

good light. In the early days, when there were lots of Re-
publicans, they used to cany them in torchlight parades."

"That probably didn't exhaust the whole marsh capacity.
Anything else?"

"We put up marsh hay. It was pretty good feed."

"Is that all?"

"We gathered wild rice. It was tops in duck and goose
dressing. I can't think of any other uses."

It was a start, but only a start. Marshes had existed through
the centuries. The ancient civilizations must have looked to
them for many tilings. On the way home I remembered the
biblical story of the daughter of Levi who, when she could
no longer conceal the infant Moses from the Egyptians, put
him in an ark of bulrushes which she laid by the riverside.
Pharaoh's daughter rescued the weeping child and turned it
over to a Hebrew nurse to raise. I wondered just how an ark
could be made from our stiff and unworkable round bul-
rushes, but when I consulted a Bible concordance I learned
that the plants referred to were of the papyrus species, with
triangular stems. I found a translation of a work on plants by
Theophrastus, a Greek philosopher who died about 287 B.C.
There I read that the papyrus had many applications other
than for a cradle to house an infant Moses. It was used for
boats and their sails, for mats, covers, and clothing, for ropes,
and for many other things of which paper probably was the
most important. Theophrastus wrote of a lotus, the Nile
water lily. When the sun set the lily closed, as does the water
lily in our marsh, but our lily lacks the remarkable habits
attributed by Theophrastus to the blossom of the Euphrates
species which, when it shut up, would go under water till
midnight, sinking to a considerable depth so that it was
below reach of a man's arm. Then it rose with the dawn and
opened as it appeared above the surface of the water. The
people collected and pounded the seeds and made loaves
of them for food. The lake of Orchomenos grows a kind of

128 Union Bay

reed which was used for making pipes and the author de-
scribed in detail the process of fashioning them.

I consulted a translation of the Natural History of Pliny
the elder, a Roman who lived about the time of Christ. His
information about the use of marsh plants was not extremely
revealing but it required a whole week's reading to loosen
my grip on the book. During that time I ran wild among
such subjects as the evil habits of the goatsuckers, the trade
in trained nightingales, the intelligence, of dolphins, the
ortalons, diving for pearls, and the locust. Some of the in-
formation was fairly accurate but much of it was as fantastic
as the fairy stories I had read as a child. The locust, according
to Pliny, could move sidewise because it had feet. The locust
mothers die when they have given birth to a brood. A mag-
got, which immediately forms in the region of the throat,
chokes them. The males die at the same time. Although the
locust dies for such a trifling cause, it can, when it likes, kill
a snake by gripping its throat with its teeth. He spoke of
locusts in India which were three feet long with legs and
thighs which, when dried, could be used as saws. Among
the Parthians the locust was an acceptable article of diet.

I considered that this. was a proper place to discontinue
my reading of Pliny. Mankind appears to have the ability
to exhaust the supply of any pleasing food offered it, and how
could insect pests be disposed of more simply than by build-
ing up an appetite for them? The legs, of course, could be
saved for saws.

In the meantime, a week had passed. That was the trouble
with curiosity, I reflected: when I began an investigation of
even a thing like an ark to hold a child, it often meant a
search of hours. I did not withdraw but resolved to investi-
gate the use of marsh products further. I recalled some dis-
cussion of marshes in a book on the thirteenth century. There
was the use of water cress for the table, the construction of
fire screens and of numerous containers, all of osier. In the

Arrowhead, Squaw's Toes, and Other Things 129

halls of the nobles, the floors were often covered on feast
days with rushes mixed with flowers and sweet-scented
herbs, the delio-fitfulness of which was sometimes marred bv
the failure to remove them until they were foul with the
accumulated rubbish which had dropped from the tables.

Gilbert White, who wrote The Natural History of Sel-
borne in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, reports
the use by the residents of his district of rushes for candles.
They strip the rushes of all but one or two ribs of surface
material which gives strength and prevents too-rapid burn-
ing. They bleach them next, after which they are dropped
into hot fat or grease. Rushes so prepared give a good clear
light and a piece a little more than two feet long will burn
an hour. He also mentions the use of a well-combed moss
which he says "is very proper for the dusting of beds, cur-
tains, carpets, hangings, etc."

As time passed I became acquainted with many interesting
facts. The first specific mention of marshes in the Pacific
Northwest was made in 1792 by Archibald Menzies in his
journal. While he was on the north shore of one of the San
Juan Islands, he met Indians who were gathering marsh ma-
terials for winter use. The passage reads as follows : ". . . we
passed a low extensive Morass well cropd with Bullrushes
of which large patches had been plucked by the Natives &
were now laid neatly out upon the Beach to season them
for making their Mats. . . ." These mats were woven during
spare times in the winter and were made for a wide variety
of uses.

I found that Fort Nisqually, one of the early Hudson's
Bay Company trading posts, had been built close to low and
marshy country at the mouth of the Nisqually River about
fifty miles from Seattle. The company journal was detailed
enough to specify any marsh products if they were being
used, but all I could find mention of was the cutting of
nearby trees for firewood, spars, and building material, the

ISO Union Bay

grazing of stock on the marsh hay, and the extensive picking
of berries by the Indians. A journal entry mentions the em-
ployment of one man "to mow rushes to be used in thatching
nouses if no better covering arrives." The attitude toward
rushes as a roof cover is evidenced by a later entry indicating
that cedar bark had been adopted for that purpose. There
was little evidence that the first white settlers had been able
to derive much benefit from marsh products in spite of the
fact that the natives made constant use of them.

My inquiries were neither intense nor according to a
definite schedule. When a desire came to me to know about
the cattail, the heaviest producer in the marsh, I read here
and there among the ancients, the medieval herbalists, the
journals of settlers and explorers, and the exploring botanists,
until I learned something about it. John Gerard, who wrote
the sixteen-hundred-page volume, The Herhall, published in
1636, had this to say of "Cats-taile":

Cats-taile hath long and flaggy leaves full of a spongeous matter or
pith, amongst which leaves groweth up a long smooth naked stalke
without knot, fashioned like a speare, of a firm or sollid substance,
having at the top a browne knop or eare, soft, thick, and smooth,
seeming to be nothing else but a deale of flocks thicke set and thrust
together, which being ripe turns into a downe and is carried away
with the winde. The roots be hard, thicke, and white, full of strings,
and good to burne, where there is plenty therof to be had. . . .

Of this Cats-taile Aristophanes makes mention in his Comedy of
Frogs where he bringeth them forth one talking with another, being
very glad that they had spent the whole day in skipping and leaping
inter Cyperum 6- Phleum, among Galingale and Cats-taile. . . .

The Vertues.

The soft downe stamped with Swines grease wel washed, healeth
burnes or scalds with fire or water.

Some Practitioners by their experience have found, that the downe
of the Cats taile beaten with the leaves of Betony, the roots of Gladiole,
and the leaves of Hyppoglosson into pouder, and mixed with the yelks
of egges hard sodden, & so eaten, is a most perfect remedy against
the disease in children . . . when the gut ... is fallen into the
cods. . . .

Arrowhead, Squaw's Toes, and Other Things 131

This downe in some places in the Isle of Ely and the Low-countries
adjoyning thereto, is gathered and well sold to make mattresses therof
for plow-men and poore people.

It hath been also often proved to heal kibed or humbled heeles, ( as
they are termed) being applied to them either before or after the skin
is broken.

Dr. Erna Gunther, Director of the Washington State Mu-
seum, has furnished much information regarding the employ-
ment of cattails by the Indians of western Washington, and it is
from her Ethnobotany of Western Washington that the fol-
lowing has been taken. Some of the Indians baked the roots
and inner stalks for eating; the roots were eaten raw by
others. But the cattail was much more widely used for mat-
making than for food. Mats were made probably by most of
the tribes in western Washington and served as hangings and
screens inside the winter houses and as coverings for tempo-
rary houses and shelters in summer. They found additional
use as mattresses, for kneeling pads in canoes, and for rain-
coats and capes. Some Indians made large wallet-like pack-
sacks of cattails and lightweight baskets as well. Two-ply
string, fashioned by rolling on the bare thigh, was made
from carefully peeled cattail leaves.

From other sources I learned that some eastern Indians
made a cake of the pollen, that cradles were lined with cat-
tail down, and that the mature heads were used in the prepa-
ration of deerskins. Dozens of additional applications doubt-
less could have been found.

At first I did not check the value of the skunk cabbage,
one of the earliest blooming plants in the marsh, because
it seemed so worthless. Its leaves are large and coarse, its
general appearance unattractive, and its odor decidedly un-
pleasant. Much to my surprise, I found myself quite in error.
The Indians of the Pacific Northwest held it in rather high
regard. As an emergency food the roots are said to have
frequently saved Indian tribes from starving. The raw root

132 Union Bay

is hot like pepper and was used for a "blood purifier" and
for stomach and bladder trouble. The leaves made a healing
poultice. The heated blossoms, when applied to a part af-
fected by rheumatism, were said to bring relief. Some of the
tribes rolled the leaves for berry containers or for drinking
cups. Dr. Gunther reports:

A Quileute sealer puts some leaves under the bow piece of his canoe
because the leaves are dead and flat and will lie still, therefore the seal
will lie still too and be caught easily.

She tells this about the plant:

The Kathlamet Indians have an interesting myth concerning the
skunk cabbage. In the ancient days, they say, there were no salmon.
The Indians had nothing to eat save roots and leaves. Principal among
these was the skunk cabbage. Finally the spring salmon came for the
first time. As they passed up the river a person stood upon the shore
and shouted: "Here come our relatives whose bodies are full of eggs.
If it had not been for me all the people would have starved."

"Who speaks to us?" asked the salmon.

"Your uncle, skunk cabbage," was the reply.

Then the salmon went ashore to see him, and as a reward for having
fed the people he was given an elk-skin blanket and a war club, and
was set in the rich, soft soil near the river. There he stands to this day
wrapped in his elk-skin blanket and holding aloft his war club.

I always think of this story as I pass skunk cabbage with
its feet in the shallow water, its yellow spathe surrounded
by rich dark leaves, and the whole reflected, in the shining
darkness of the marsh water. Perhaps its unpleasant odor is
a decided benefit because without it the skunk cabbages
would make such fine house decorations that they might soon
disappear.

There is one plant in the marsh which has personal sig-
nificance for me, for the sight of its flowers reminds me of the
few times in my life when my working minutes went like
hours— the days when I hoed potatoes. The blossoms of this
marsh plant resemble, except in color, those of the potatoes

Arrowhead, Squaws Toes, and Other Things 133

that my hoeing was supposed to stimulate into growth. It
grows on the margins of the marsh and in many other places
in the world. It was known to the early Romans and to the
Greeks. Let me quote parts of Gerard's description in his
seventeenth century Herball:

Of Bitter-sweet, or wooddy Nightshade.

Bitter-sweet bringeth forth wooddy stalks as doth the Vine, parted
into many slender creeping branches, by which it climeth and taketh
hold of hedges and shrubs next unto it. The barke of the oldest stalks
are rough and whitish, of the colour of ashes, with the outward rind
of a bright green colour, but the yonger branches are green as are
the leaves: the wood brittle, having in it a spongie pith: it is clad with
long leaves, smooth, sharp pointed, lesser than those of the Bind-
weed. At the lower part of the same leaves doth grow on either side
one smal or lesser leafe like unto two eares. The floures be small, and
somewhat clustered together, consisting of five little leaves apiece of a
perfect blew colour, with a certain pricke or yellow pointal in the
middle: which being past, there do come in place faire berries more
long than round, at the first green, but very red when they be ripe; of
a sweet taste at the first, but after very unpleasant, of a strong favor,
growing together in clusters like burnished coral. The root is of a
mean bignesse, and full of strings. . . .

The leaves come forth in the spring, the flours in July, the berries
are ripe in August. . . .

The decoction of the leaves is reported to remove the stoppings of
the liver and gall, and to be drunke with good successe against the
yellow jaundise.

The juice is good for those that have fallen from high places, and
have been thereby bruised, or dry-beaten: for it is thought to dissolve
the bloud congealed or cluttered any where in the intrals, and to heale
the hurt places.

Tragus teacheth to make a decoction of wine, with the wood
[of the plant] finely sliced and cut into smal pieces: which he re-
porteth to purge gently . . . those that have the Dropsie or jaundice. . . .

The plant is still used to some extent for rheumatism and
skin diseases, and for poulticing abcesses or felons, which
value is indicated by one of the early names for this plant,
felonwort. No plant in our marsh is so persistent: I have
recorded it as blooming in May and, soon after, I noticed

134 Union Bay

blooms, young green berries, partly matured yellow ones, and
the ripe coral-red berries all on the same plant, a condition
which continues until at least the first of October.

Almost every journal of early explorers contains references
to the gathering of vegetable foods and speaks of seeing "a
number of Indians" or of "meeting numerous natives," or of
"men, women and children" all engaged in gathering, cut-
ting, or digging some item of food. Ethnologists point out
that the collection and preparation of food supplies usually
was not a solitary affair but one in which large groups par-
ticipated. Often it was an occasion for the summer meeting of
friendly tribes, a meeting at which games, ceremonies, and
gambling took place. Some of the more perishable fruits were
eaten as they were collected, but it was the period of great-
est food supply so that the collectors could eat their fill as
well as set aside and prepare large surpluses for the winter
. shortage. The areas were gay with color, the natives happy
and busy, and everybody, even the children, engaged in some
sort of task.

The harvesting of the wapatoo was just such a communal
occupation. Wapatoo is the edible root of a species of arrow-
head, a perennial aquatic or marsh herb. The plant derives
its name from the shape of its leaves, which resemble the
head or point of an arrow. The leaves are coarse, heavily
veined, of a handsome darkish-green, and of varying propor-
tions, although all of them have the general arrowhead shape.
They are found usually in shallow water. The underground
stems are often several in number, each of which ends
in an edible tuber. The flowers are white, showy, and are
borne on long scapes or stalks, which makes them stand out
distinctly. In the marsh they grow along the canal margins
in fairly large numbers where the water is not too deep.

Gerard lists two species of this plant under the Latin
designation of Sagittaria major and minor and under the
English names of "water-Archer, or Great and Small Arrow-

Arrowhead, Squaw's Toes, and Other Things 135

head." He refers these plants to Theophrastus and Pliny, but
states that he finds nothing in writing concerning their vir-
tues or temperament, a statement which appeared strange
to' me, for the wapatoo, a relative, has been of the greatest
importance in the economy of the Pacific Northwest Indians.
They gathered it for their own needs, and used the surplus
for trading purposes. Lewis and Clark, who described it in
their journal, wrote that it was collected chiefly by the
women who employed canoes from ten to fourteen feet long
and light enough so that they could be carried easily. The
women would take their canoes to a pond, where they would
push them ahead and wade among the arrowhead plants.
When they located the bulbous roots they would free them
with their toes. When the roots floated to the surface they
gathered and put them into their canoes. One can imagine
the sight, the brown bodies of the harvesters outlined against
the green of the swamp, the splashing, the comments, and
growing heaps of the wapatoo in the cedar canoes.

On the shore near the marsh stood the small mat houses
of the tribe, temporary shelters for use in such situations.
Here the women, too old for work in the water, prepared the
wapatoo for use. The little children played or, if too young,
lay wide-eyed in their boards while the pits were dug and
the bulbs roasted to make a product so highly esteemed that
it was a regular article of commerce and trading. Surplus
stocks of wapatoo brought many things to the tribes who
prepared it. Buckskins and berries, horn and arrowheads,
dried oysters and clams, and many other things which were
plentiful in other sections were available to those who had
wapatoo for trade. Lewis and Clark exchanged beads, small
articles of copper and iron, and other trifles for it, and found
the wapatoo superior to the camass which was so extensively
dug by Indians in the less humid districts. Most of the early
explorers mentioned the plant and its value to the natives.

I could easily understand how the marshes in a country

136 Union Bay

so heavily timbered as the Puget Sound region once was
could have been looked to by the Indians for their food
products. The forests stretched almost everywhere. Meadows,
except in the higher reaches of the mountains, were not com-
mon. Little food of value grew in the dense timberland. It
was the open park country, the few meadows, and the
marshes which furnished the bulk of the native food require-
ments. When other food could not be secured the roots of
the lady-fern and the bracken were cooked and served with
salmon eggs and provided a palatable dish. Even the horse-
tail was eaten in emergencies. Some species of wild onion
were esteemed and sought. The nettle, much- used for food
in Europe, does not appear to have been used as a food by
our native tribes, although Dr. Gunther reports its uses as
string for duck nets, as a rubbing material to keep seal hunt-
ers awake, and as a treatment for rheumatism.

Self-evident is the use of the berries of the marsh. The
Indians ate them all: the cranberries from the bogs, the elder-
berries on the margins, the blackberries which hang over
the banks in long hedges. I know how easily the blackberries
are gathered, for many times in late August, with a leather
glove on one hand to hold the canoe close to the prickly
vines, I have picked quarts of plump and dust-free fruit— the
most comfortable berry picking I have ever known.

There were few of the plants I investigated about the
marsh which were not used by the Indians for some purpose:
food, medicine, material, charms, or ceremony. A common
shrub like spirea seems valueless but Dr. Gunther reports its
use by the Quinault Indians who peel its smaller stems and
make a string to hold clams for roasting. Perhaps that was
the way the Indians had strung the dried clams which Cap-
tain Vancouver had noticed hanging on their persons like
necklaces and from which, when hungry, they removed and
ate as many as they desired. Edible necklaces, a device

Arrowhead, Squaw's Toes, and Other Things 137

which, if adopted by modern jewelers, might help to carry
their business over the dull periods of which they complain!

Here are uses for other plants obtainable in or near west-
ern Washington marshes: heated roots of yellow pond lilies
applied to the seat of pain caused by rheumatism; Oregon
grape for food, its root for a dye, its bark as an infusion to
wash skin and mouth sores. The fruit of crab apples is well
liked; its wood makes prongs for seal spears; the bark is
boiled to make a brew to wash cuts and for internal use.
Boiled dogwood bark cures sore eyes. Coltsfoot roots can be
boiled to make a drink for tuberculosis patients or to use as
an emetic. Yarrow was known to the Romans and Greeks as
a curative herb and Dr. Gunther reports it of value to the
natives of western Washington who sought it for a variety
of uses: for a hair wash, for its aromatic qualities, for colds,
stomach trouble, and as a general tonic.

Dr. Gunther believes that no portion of the United States
furnished its native residents with a more varied, abundant,
and well-balanced supply of food, without cultivation, than
western Washington. The fact that most of the vegetable
products were gathered by women gave them a better eco-
nomic standing than that enjoyed by women in an economy
where hunting was dominant.

Such uses of marsh products have almost disappeared.
Modern society, accustomed to processing most of the prim-
ary products, appears to have discovered few outlets for all
this growth. Marsh hay, packing material of reeds, cattails,
and bracken, and a limited amount of dried material for
life preservers constitute the bulk of modern requirements.
It has become evident to me that if the marsh were to be
appraised only in terms of removable crops it would have
to be placed far down in the economic scale.

I could not quite understand this apparent waste. I could
not reconcile it with the close utilization of resources which
seems so usual in other communities. Ordinarily, production

138 Union Bay

and consumption strike a balance so that there is little mate-
rial left after the consumers of that material have finished
with it. But, here, much was left apparently unused. I passed
over the submerged plants of the bay. I could see minnows
and now and then larger fish as they slowly swam through
the lacery of the vegetation. The mallards and the coots fed
in such areas but there was little evidence of disturbance or
of any considerable use of the plants. I moved through the
canals and inside channels: the knotweed in the coves stood
knee-high and untouched by feeding animals. The muskrats
had done so little damage to the cattails and bulrushes that
it was not easy to see where they had been working.. Evi-
dence of overfeeding was totally lacking. The whole marsh
appeared lush and fresh. When the fallmigrants arrived thev
would find it as inviting as an irrigated meadow which had
been saved for winter pasture.

It occurred to me that perhaps this need for winter food
was partly the answer to the reason for this oversupply.
When the hunting pressure in the marsh was so light that
wild fowl lived and nested in numbers, there had been more
use of these marsh facilities by the residents, and the propor-
tion of consumption to production probably had been greater.
But the marsh is now better equipped to carry out its role
of wildlife hotel. Here the hard-pressed migrants will find
food ready for them, as the food of a city hotel might be
stored and ready for the rush of guests soon to begin.

I suspect that the indirect use of the marsh vegetation may
be of more value than would be its direct use by man. The
wildlife of the area receives its primary requirements of food
and shelter from this vegetation. It enables the food chains to
operate so that the life of the marsh may continue. The sur-
plus is available to those visitors which so regularly take ad-
vantage of it. And perhaps it is not too much to say that the
beauty of such untouched areas has a value which, though
intangible, is considerable.

The Henpecked Shorebird
That Goes to Sea

12

M J&* ♦ IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER MY EN-

counter with the small catfish that I ran across an old bird
friend in the marsh— the northern phalarope. The area was
full of the hum of bees which busily occupied themselves in
harvesting the climax honey crop of loosestrife. Since then I
have always seen these birds under the same conditions in
the area so that they, the bees, and the rich fields of purple
bloom have been closely connected in my memory.

The sight of the phalarope recalled the first time I had
seen it in the marsh. The canoehouse manager had hailed me
as soon as I arrived at the float. He said:

"There's a queer bird swimming out there. It's light-
colored and floats high like a gull but it's too small for one.
And it keeps whirling and pecking at the water while it
moves. Looks like a shorebird, but if it is it's doing tricks
that I never saw a shorebird do before."

"It's a phalarope," I said. "I often see them spinning like
that at this time of year on salt water. I never saw one in
the marsh before. We can add it to our records."

"You can label it new and goofy.' It acts like a toy swung
on a string."

139

140 Union Bay

He had described the bird well. When I approached, it
was whirling vigorously in a circle less than a yard in diam-
eter and pecking at the rate of two or three times per revolu-
tion at bits of food that the disturbed water had brought to
the surface. I remember my first impression: I thought this
spinning creature had a trim fineness combined with sturdi-
ness of the kind one sees in a distance runner. It had the
general appearance of a tern but it was a small bird, smaller
than a killdeer. Its bill was needle-sharp and about as long
as its head, which moved back and forth, sometimes very
rapidly, as the bird swam. Its general color was whitish but
a grayish-dusky bar showed distinctly behind the eye. It did
not call constantly in the manner of some of the shorebirds,
but appeared much less boisterous and noisy. I placed it as
a bird of quiet habits and one that would not venture over
long distances, a surmise that subsequent information proved
entirely wrong.

I stopped when a few yards away and watched the bird
as it continued feeding. The long-billed dowitchers had al-
lowed me to approach closely just as this bird did but their
attitude was entirely different— a mixture of friendliness com-
bined with wariness. They reminded me of robins as they
reached for worms when I spaded in the garden. They did
not object to my nearness, but merely kept a wary eye upon
me to be sure that I was up to no tricks. But this bird simply
ignored me. It did not look my way or change its course,
and when it headed directly toward the canoe it made no
effort to veer right or left but uttered an irritated protest at
the obstruction. Even then it did not fly but continued peck-
ing at food so close to the gunwale that I could have touched
it without changing my position. Occasionally it flew a few
feet, and, after stirring up the water with a couple of swings,
fed again. Why it circled I did not know, for the surface was
covered with small insects which seemed to make the dis-
turbance of the water unnecessary. Back and forth it went.

The Henpecked Shorcbird That Goes to Sea

141

'WtKk&-

I followed slowly and carefully with the canoe. The uncon-
cern that the bird showed for all traffic rules astonished me:
its determination to follow any route it had selected seemed
to indicate that it had met few obstructions in its early life.
The wind had dropped, the sun was about as hot as I had
ever felt it in the marsh, and I had stripped down to shorts
and a track shirt. Ordinarily the brightness of such days ap-
peared to make the birds quite wary so that many of them,
which never objected to my coming close on windy days,
would fly when I was three or four canoe lengths away. But
this shorebird which spent most of its time swimming, and
which moved nervously, evidently had no fear of me or my
moving boat. It continued its quick jabbing pecks, which at
first had seemed rather aimless, but which I could now see
were delivered with force and precison. Its prey must have
been small on that day or surely it would have been forced

142 Union Bay

to stop from lack of capacity, for it fed steadily while I ate
my lunch and followed it about.

I wondered why it did not rest and bathe as was the cus-
tom with nearly all of the shorebirds which visited the marsh.
I could think of no other shorebird which would allow so
close approach and particularly on such a day; I had never
before seen a bird with such peculiar mannerisms. I did not
know until later that it possessed other habits which made
the actions I had already observed seem commonplace.

This bird, the northern phalarope, is the commonest of
three species of phalaropes which are found in the Pacific
Northwest. The name phalarope comes from- the Greek and
means coot-footed, as their toes are lobed, like those of the
mud hens or coots. They are shorebirds but they spend most
of their time at sea. One of the others, the Wilson phalarope,
is found in summer in the valleys east of the Cascade Range,
while the red phalarope is an offshore bird and rarely comes
to land except to breed or when storm driven. One great
appearance of red phalaropes occurred some years ago and
is still talked about, for these birds, never before noticed by
the natives, were found in great numbers as far inland as
Puget Sound. Scarcely a year passed after my first experience
with a northern phalarope that I did not see one or more in
the marsh. And often when I crossed Puget Sound on the
ferry, dozens of them, plainly visible from the boat, would
be indulging in their peculiar spinning system. A troop of
Boy Scouts, in discussing the hunting methods of birds they
had seen, placed the robins at the top because nearly every-
thing they ate was easily obtained, but they put the phala-
ropes and the swallows in the lowest bracket, and after some
deliberation they gave the booby prize to the phalaropes be-
cause they thought it took more effort for them to get their
food by stirring up their "bathwater" than it did for the swal-
lows to fly "about with their mouths open and scooping their
food from the air."

The Henpecked Shorebird That Goes to Sea 143

Nothing could have been better for my bird-watching pur-
pose than this hot and quiet day, which made a vast mirror
of the water and softened the views of the marsh with its
haze so that it looked like a photograph which had been
made with a diffusion lens. The bird showed no desire to
leave and proceeded slowly through the open spaces which
had not yet been clogged by the encroaching marsh plants.
I could see no boats on the bay. Ordinarily half a dozen or
more canoeists, noticing my binoculars and camera, would
have paused to investigate and in all probability would have
flushed my bird. I wondered where people were until I
remembered that the paper of the night before had predicted
a "perfect picnic day," which meant that they had taken
longer trips and were at the beaches or the mountains— per-
haps at Rainier which was plainly visible from base to
summit.

I continued to watch the bird while it whirled occasionally,
pecked, abruptly changed direction, and frequently went
back over the same spot it had just left. It was a jittery ap-
pearing creature, although without the nervous habits of the
killdeer which involved much running up and down, con-
tinual calling, and sudden flights. The phalarope lacked the
teetering uneasiness of the spotted sandpiper which would
not feed more than a minute in the same place, but it did
have the aimless progress and apparent lack of direction of
that bird. Judged by human standards it did not rate high,
but as I learned more about the bird I found that it admir-
ably performed the exceptional duties which made up an
existence quite different from that of any bird I had met.

I did not know then just how different it was. I was be-
ginning to realize that an observer of wildlife must assemble
his information differently than a newspaper man. Had I
been a city reporter interviewing a new arrival, I could have
supplemented my observations by questions to bring out facts
which would have told me the salient points of the man's

144 Union Bay

career. But I could use no such methods with my northern
phalarope. I could only make careful notes of the bird's
actions and appearance when I saw it in the marsh, on the
salt waters of Puget Sound, or in other places which it
locally visited. If I wanted to learn more about it I had to
talk to others or check the writings of those who had ob-
served the bird at different times of the year and in various
places and under diverse conditions. Its range was so great
that it was not likely that I would see it on its breeding
grounds or in its wintering areas. Probably few men who had
watched it in its winter quarters would also have the oppor-
tunity to observe it nesting. It was quite certain that those
who had studied the phalarope in the north or in the south
would not see it in the marsh where I was sitting. In only
one way could an approximately correct life history of such
a bird be secured— by combining the observations of the
observers in the north with those in the south, by adding all
the notes describing the bird in migration, and by supple-
menting these records with the little particulars obtained by
those who had the opportunity to observe the birds more or
less intimately in their own local and restricted districts.
Every detail had to be considered of importance in throwing
further light on the bird's behavior. As an example, I offer
this one.

Once I saw a northern phalarope on Lake Crescent, one
of the most beautiful of our western mountain resort areas.
It is not a likely feeding place, for the water abruptly deep-
ens and there are not two acres of marsh on its entire margins.
Timbered hills border its west side to a height of four thou-
sand feet while to the east the imposing peak of Storm King
thrusts brown rocky buttresses down into the green of the
forest. The lake, long, curved, and narrow, is so blue that
many a curious tourist has dipped a pail of water to see if it
is really colored, only to find out that it is the blended re-
flection of rock, timber, and sky that has given the water its

The Henpecked Shorebird That Goes to Sea 145

color. At the time of my visit the firs were shedding pollen
which was drifting close to shore in a floating windrow of
yellow. From my faltboat I spied a northern phalarope busily
pecking among the bright grains. I watched closely and was
quite certain that the bird was eating the yellow dust, and
the more I looked the more certain I became until at last I
began to examine the shining band with my binoculars. Then
I found there were small brown insects on the water and
that they, and not the grains, were being eaten. Had not the
surface been absolutely smooth and my time unlimited I
would have left with the thought that I had seen a phalarope
eating pollen of the fir. Never have I read of another phala-
rope swimming on a mountain lake in such a sheet of golden
yellow.

Because I had never seen a phalarope except when it was
swimming, I was astonished to find some days later that a
small bird which I saw running about the lily pads in the
marsh was a northern phalarope. It paraded among the water
lilies as if it were an avian mannequin. The faint blush of its
light breast, the tawny stripes which broke up the darkness
of its back, the small and typical phalarope stripe behind the
eye, the sharp bill— all could be seen perfectly. Field glasses
were only an annoyance because the bird often came within
four feet as it fed over the pads in much the same way as the
spotted sandpiper, which always sought the rich insect life
present in August. Unlike the sandpiper it was careless or
awkward so that it continually walked off the edge of the
pad and into the water, from which it emerged with a flutter
of wings and a sprinkling of drops, and then began feeding
again. Because the pads were black with insects of several
sizes, its intake was only limited by the speed of its attack.
It went round and round on the fifteen-foot circle of pads,
always oblivious of my presence, never still, intent on the
satisfaction of an appetite which might have been due to the
fact that it had just arrived at the marsh after a long flight.

146 Union Bay

Once it started to fly away but some young barn swallows,
which had been engaged in flight practice, dipped close
enough to annoy or frighten it, so that it gave its protesting
note and returned and started feeding again. I divided my
time for the next half hour in watching another practice
flight which was going on just to the south of the lily pads.
A helicopter was making landings— it would descend noisily
to within forty feet of the surface and there it would poise
like a huge osprey and then drop lightly, down to the water.
Time after time I watched the maneuver and as I observed
the precision control I thought that such flying was within
the range of any person. But I did not then realize the skill
required. Only a few days later the same training plane met
with a failure of engine or pilot, and the occupant was killed
at the very spot I had been watching.

At home in the ensuing weeks I began to read more about
the northern phalaropes with the result that my attitude
toward them changed considerably. I felt like a city reporter
who had casually talked to unassuming and pleasant strangers
at a reception only to find later that he had met an Amelia
Earhart, or a V. Stefansson. From then on the bird could
never be just another visitor to be judged by the impression
of the moment. It had now a fascinating and varied back-
ground which would repay constant and close inquiry. My
small-town visitor had become a cosmopolite. The bird I saw
in its plain grays and whites was not like the one which had
doffed its traveling dress and attired itself for the breeding
season. Then the female had worn gray-black plumage on
the head, white side patches on the neck, and a nape of red,
with its dark back streaked with brown, and with dark gray
daubs running down from the upper sides into the light
underparts. The male bird, contrary to the usual relationships
of bird sexes, had been much more plainly adorned, but its
spring plumage was brighter and neater and more attractive
than in fall and winter.

The Henpecked Shorebird That Goes to Sea 147

My reading and consultation with my Alaska friends told
me why the male northern phalarope had been called "the
henpecked shorebird which goes to sea." It does go to sea and
probably for the greater part of its life. And the male is a
henpecked bird with a role on the breeding ground which is
somewhat depressing. He does not strut and pose as the
leader of phalaropes nor does he have the delusions of
grandeur carried by the cock in Rostand's play Chanticleer.
It is the female that gets the top billing. She is larger, more
dominating, much more elaborately attired, and does not
hesitate to run the whole show. She gets into character from
the time she puts feet on the ground which is to be her
summer home. She does not wait for a suitor but, seemingly
adopting the theory that what is worth having is worth going
after, she starts out, makes overtures to the male of her
choice, fights over him with her female rivals, chases him,
browbeats him, makes seductively beautiful flights as he
floats on the water beneath, and herds him constantly until
she has won him and they are finally mated.

Is it any wonder that these visiting phalaropes had a dif-
ferent appeal to me after I had checked their records? My
marsh observations would never have taught me the facts
about them. I would have placed them under the head of
queer or eccentric birds and would have let it go at that. The
field of my marsh observations was narrowly limited. It had
required the combined observations of many men over a
period of many years to piece together the numerous records
I had consulted. But with the information I acquired I could
visualize the birds' departure from their offshore wintering
areas, their speedy overwater flight to their far north breed-
ing grounds, and their arrival on those foggy, bleak, and
windswept beaches where snow patches still remained and
ice formed every night on the ponds. The birds would gather,
the courtship proceedings would begin, and the fighting
females would quarrel with each other over the possession

148 Union Bay

of the peaceful and somewhat indifferent males. Noise and
activity would continue day after day, and into the night as
well, until the courtship flights and the mating of the birds
had taken place, and the bewildered males had found them-
selves under the sole domination of a larger and more de-
termined bird.

It is certainly true that the harassed males do not realize
the ignominy of this relationship; at least that is what the
scientists would say. I am equally certain that most human
males hope to the contrary. It may be that the male bird's
intelligence considers that one act of appeasement will be
sufficient. But it is not. As in all appeasement, the pre-
liminary yielding is not accepted gracefully, but merely sets
the pattern for further demands. The female may select the
nesting site and lay the cornerstone, so to speak, but the male
soon finds himself collecting the grasses and other material
for the scanty nest which will be no credit to the sex of the
builder. The laying of the eggs may give the male false hopes,
but they are soon dispelled when he finds himself charged
with the duty of brooding the eggs, while the female makes
a great show of vigilant patroling of the area and between
times foregathers with others of her sex.

I would like to report that brooding ends the duties of
these unfortunate males, but after the eggs are pipped and
the young are off the nest one of the pair takes on the greater
part of their care. It is not the female. Management is her
forte and management is practically all she contributes. The
poor sire, the beauty of his plumage marred by the tell-tale
brooding patches, probably looks out each morning at the
sun, which rises very early on these northern breeding
grounds, heaves the equivalent of an avian sigh, and starts
to herd the three or four young which are already peeping
loudly for food. What a spectacle for the males of other
species to watch! What a sermon against the overindulgence

The Henpecked Shorebird That Goes to Sea 149

of mates! What disgust must be aroused by a review of the
summer schedule of these males!

It cannot be an easy task to raise these active precocial
mites, which can swim on the first day of their life and can
run nimbly about clad in their rich buff upper down and
silver gray underparts. The males act, I suppose, much like
the females of other species, and call, scratch, probe, and
peck, and indicate by example just how a mature and capable
phalarope proceeds in the business of getting a living. The
three or four chicks may all live, they may be all wiped out,
or perhaps one or two may be secured by a persistent skua
or jaeger, or by some wily mammal.

If I have treated the family activities of the phalaropes
in a rather unscientific vein, it is not because I fail to realize
the mental limitations of birds and their inability to reason
and think. I have taken this course because the situation is
so unusual and amusing as to be worth presenting in that
way. Perhaps it is well to remark that many questions con-
cerning this apparent reversal of family duties remain unan-
swered. How common is the practice among other species?
What suggestions have been made to explain its origin? Mat-
ing ardor of male birds is usually regarded as exceeding that
of the females, which normally perform the greater part of
the duties of nest building and the brooding and care of the
young. Can it be that the assuming of this work by the male
leads to the mating aggressiveness of the female?

The early arrival of phalaropes has greatly puzzled me.
Two of them were obviously young birds. The nesting rec-
ords in the Yukon region appear to indicate that no young
appear before the third week in June. Could one of these
birds acquire its flying plumage, make the long trip south,
and appear in early August? Or is it possible that the breed-
ing range extends farther south than is usually thought? It
has been stated that the Indians of the Pacific Coast claimed
that the bird nested along the coast of British Columbia but

ISO Union Bay

I have found no confirmation. The early record of a young
bird in our marsh might possibly indicate the existence of a
nearer and earlier breeding ground. At any rate it demon-
strates the vexing exceptions that disturb what are thought
to be well-established patterns.

The phalaropes justify their name of sea snipe or swim-
ming plovers, for when they are not on the breeding grounds
they live largely at sea. They have been seen on the coast of
Africa, offshore along Peru and Chile, near Borneo and New
Guinea, as far south as Patagonia, and are reported to winter
as far north as southern California. Which of these places
would the bird on the lily pads visit after it left the marsh?
If it flew the offshore route along the coast it may have
stopped south of Los Angeles or along South America where
Robert C. Murphy, in his book Oceanic Birds of South
America, reported northern phalaropes

... in vast numbers along the whole length of Peru . . . large flocks

. in Pisco Bay . . . thousands in oily looking patches on the water along

the coast to southward of San Lorenzo Island . . . thousands upon

thousands flushed by the southbound steamer near Mazorca Island. . . .

Regardless of where the bird wintered it is quite probable
that its flight would be one of several thousand miles.

The phalaropes which left the marsh would not be free
from the danger which has always attended migration. Such
passages over land have produced countless tragedies with
losses running into hundreds of thousands of birds. Migration
over water is more hazardous, for there are few or no landing
places, no protection from sleet or snow which often accom-
pany gales. The birds must fly on and if exhausted can only
drop helplessly into a caldron in which even strong-swim-
ming species cannot live. Other hazards await these travelers.
William Brewster, the ornithologist, found in one place that:

Most of the birds [phalaropes] examined had lost one or more toes,
and two or three an entire foot and part of the tarsus also, while others

The Henpecked Shorebird That Goes to Sea 151

showed gaping wounds on the breast. These mutilations were probably
caused by the bites of fishes.

I have often recalled the visit of the phalarope and of the
manner in which it abruptly ceased its feeding and disap-
peared over the south rim of the marsh. Was its passage a
safe one? What area did it ultimately reach? The words "not
a sparrow falls" seem particularly applicable, for if any crea-
ture appeared in need of protection it was this small bird as
it headed for hundreds of miles of open ocean.

Among the Guests Registered

13

M ^S+ I SUSPECT THAT THERE IS A TRACE

of the collector in most of us so that we like to gather things
or materials or sensations. Even those who are content to go
along in their ordinary routine gleefully welcome the un-
usual, whether it be in pottery, golf scores, boat races, or
anything else in which they have an interest.

I have always assumed such an attitude toward my experi-
ences in the marsh— a more or less philosophical and placid
acceptance of the ordinary and a keen delight in every devia-
tion from it. On many occasions I have seen nothing of con-
sequence during the whole day, the sum total being only a
few additions to the little I had accumulated about this or
that bird or mammal, a few more notes on the vegetation,
the effects of the changing water depth, the unusual varia-
tion in the shape of the arrowhead leaves, or any of a hun-
dred other trifles. On one occasion I watched a fight between
two coots, an affair which came close to being a burlesque
duel, a contest in which two clumsy birds raised themselves
into an upright position, which they maintained with their
wings while they sparred mightily but without causing any
visible damage. One of them, either from loss of energy or

152

Among the Guests Registered
i

153

without enough confidence in its cause, eventually found the
going too tough and dived to end the battle. The victor
uttered what was apparently meant to be a song of triumph
and poised to slam the diver when it reappeared. Its emer-
gence was only momentary for the blow it received was sharp
enough to send it below again, bereft of valor and convinced
that other spots in the marsh were more healthy. When it
reappeared it was several yards from the winner. Another
example of the comparatively trivial was the posing of the
white-crested cormorants, black-colored snaky-necked birds,
which used to perch on a pile and then stand there for an
hour or more with wings outstretched. At first I thought it
might be part of a courtship performance, but it is not con-
fined to the breeding season. Nor can it be done only to aid
wing drying, for I have seen them with wings widespread in
the rain. They looked silly, whatever their purpose, and any

154 Union Bay

stranger who observes the performance invariably comments
on it.

This is the type of routine that goes on in the marsh, the
kind of news which, if it concerns people instead of swamp
birds, finds a place in the local column of the neighborhood
paper. Such news gathering in the city requires much leg
work and at times becomes most boring. It is a large part of
a reporter's job, but each of them knows, as my marsh experi-
ence had taught me, that behind all of this routine lies an-
other field full of glamour and excitement. It is the prospect
of getting into that field that keeps a reporter on the job,
and it often brings him back after he thinks he has quit
permanently. Constantly, like the prospector following his
burro over the hills, he can keep up his interest by thinking
that this might be the day— the time when the unexpected
could happen and furnish him a famous story.

The marsh can be compared with the city, my visits with
a reporter's. There are the usual incidents involving the
regular residents and frequent visitors, the common events
such as the two examples. And then in the background is
the other field of the more infrequent but infinitely more
dramatic and impressive. This principally concerns the ar-
rival, the stay, and the departure of the important and ir-
regular visitors, those guests with reputations as international
travelers. Then, too, we occasionally see creatures with curi-
ous habits, striking characteristics, and birds which are com-
mon on the seacoast or beyond the mountains but almost
unknown in our area. The sight of these strangers stimulates
the marsh observer just as the sight of some rare book excites
a collector, and the opportunity to see them is always a
great privilege. These are the types of incidents that I have
in mind:

East of the Cascade Range and not much more than a
hundred miles away lives the loveliest of all North American
blackbirds, the yellow-headed. To look at one is to see gold

Among the Guests Registered 255

and ebony made more contrasting by white on the wings-
flashing brilliance in a sunlit valley, legs clinging to rushes,
head erect while the bird sings, a perfect subject for an
artist. It occupies the reedy areas of ponds caused by irriga-
tion overflow, or the shallow margins of potholes— any place
where enough water stands to create a rush and cattail situa-
tion. Little can be said of its song for, although it has plenty
of volume, it is coarse, harsh, and unmusical. If one is to hold
the mood evoked by the bird's beauty, the song must be
ignored and attention concentrated on its plumage and sur-
roundings. When I drive through marshy areas in eastern
Washington I often see yellow-headed blackbirds, hear their
chatter, and watch their incessant activity.

I had never seen the bird west of the Cascade Range until
a friend and I flushed it in the soggy brownness of a showery
day in the marsh— a bit of beauty minus the setting of the
valleys and plains in which it was usually found. Redwings
were all about, song sparrows and tule wrens sang, for it was
the breeding season and life was pleasant. Even the gloomy
bittern betrayed by its call that it had taken, or awaited, a
mate. It was just after six but many automobiles hurried on
their way to work.

The bird stood on a log that had stranded a few yards out
in the bay. It was silent and motionless as if aware of the
strangeness of its surroundings. It remained only a few min-
utes but that was all we needed to identify it, for no other
bird in the Pacific Northwest wore that combination of black
and yellow. When it rose it gave a slight call and, splendid
in the morning sun, started toward the north. With its de-
parture came a slight irritation due to the questions that the
presence of a strange bird always caused. What brought it
out of its usual territory? It could not be ascribed to any
habits of fall roving, for the bird obviously was on its way to
the nesting grounds. Was it merely wandering from regular
routes as people do? If so, why didn't more birds like it come

156 Union Bay

into our area? Was its roaming in any way connected with
storms, or with some failure in the bird's directional mecha-
nism? Would a bird which started to wander continue the
next year and during the remainder of its life? Someday I
hope to meet a person who can give me the answers.

Other birds from the east side of the Cascades eventually
added their name to our register. The black-crowned night
heron, a sturdy edition of the herons, is chicken-size, rather
long legged, and mostly gray in color. It is fairly common
around eastern Washington marshes, but is so rare on Puget
Sound that its name has only recently appeared on the local
check lists, and I have seen it but twice in our.area. The day
of the first visit was not particularly appropriate, for sunshine
and a football game had brought a capacity crowd to the
stadium and their cars were parked right to the banks of
Canoehouse Bay. I saw the heron on an old float less than
half a block awav from all the din and confusion of the
parking. It stood motionless, apparently tired from a long
flight, and regarded my close approach with indifference.
A green heron, equally apathetic, stood close by it. The
black-crowned was not a new bird to me. I had seen its
yellow legs, white forehead, black crown and bill, and dumpy
body many times before. I had observed it in eastern Wash-
ington, in the Middle West, and in the East had watched
its after-sunset flights from the nesting grounds to its feeding
areas along the low banks of a stream or in marshy ponds.
But I had never before come within two canoe lengths of
one. It did not move a foot from the place where it first stood.
I have seen other newcomers almost as quiet, and I have
often wondered if the complete inaction and lack of fear is
due to fatigue or whether there is a more likely explanation.
I left and made a trip around the marsh only to find it in the
same place when I returned. I could not find it two days later.

Another type of visitor which has been on our marsh
register only one time is the buff-breasted sandpiper, a rare

Among the Guests Registered 157

bird which once was present in large numbers in the central
part of the United States. It has two habits which practically
insure the destruction of any shorebird— the first is its lack
of fear of the hunter, and the second, its habit of flying in
compact groups. This eight-inch shorebird has never been
plentiful in the Pacific Northwest, but now it is so rare that
I had never before seen a live one and knew it only through
specimens I had studied in the museums. Few birds are
as easy to identify. The way in which it stretched its neck
reminded me of a pectoral sandpiper, although it was entirely
different in other respects. I made the usual notes for use in
checking and recorded the short bill, yellowish legs, feathers
of back with blackish centers, but the recording was only
to follow the established routine for I knew the creature the
minute I saw it. No other shorebird visiting our region had
the uniformly tan underparts displayed by this species. This
tan almost matched the sand upon which the sandpiper
walked so that I faced the task of photographing a bird
against a background of almost the same color, an extremely
difficult job. The result proved valuable for identification
but almost worthless as a photograph.

I learned many things by observation during the time it
remained in the marsh. I tried to follow it with the canoe
as it fed on the small island, but it always kept far enough
ahead of me to make that effort useless. Then I found that
the bird followed a route regular enough eventually to bring
it to me if I stayed quietly in the grounded canoe. It fed
quickly and intensively in one spot before flying a few yards
to repeat the process. It was constantly among the gulls on
the flat, and when one of them would make a move to peck
it the shorebird would jump a foot or two without apparent
alarm and resume feeding. It stayed aloof from the killdeers
that moved about.

In the evenings I read many interesting things about the
buff-breasted sandpiper. Although I had long since ceased to

158 Union Bay

be astonished at the distances traveled by some small birds,
I was a bit overwhelmed to know that W. H. Hudson, the
English naturalist who had written of the La Plata River
region in the Argentine, had noted the annual southward
passage of the bird to Patagonia in October. He maintained
that many thousands of the birds wintered there. He had
observed them flying north in April and May. So far as I
could ascertain, the only breeding site is on the northwest
coast of Alaska. Even if many of the birds do not winter as
far south as Patagonia, the distances traveled by all of them
are tremendous and their schedule exceedingly close. There
have been many explanations of the causes which impel a
bird to winter nearly two continents away from its nesting
area but none that logically accounts for this trip.

I continued to watch the bird until the eighth day when
I found it had disappeared. It had been a brief stop, but
when I calculated the distance it must travel before reaching
its winter grounds, I concluded that its stay was long enough
to be a real tribute to the marsh and its hospitality. As the
thrillers would say: "Here is a bird that ventures everything
for love. It annually makes a trip of from twelve to sixteen
thousand miles in return for three months of family life."

While I had been busy watching this tan bird move about
on a similarly colored background, I nearly allowed another
important record to pass unnoticed. Such activity in this
small marsh hotel was without precedent. One real interview
at a time, with a considerable time between interviews, was
all that I had been trained to expect, but now I was in the
exciting position of a small town reporter who, while calling
on a general on a visit to friends in the locality, had received
a telegram announcing the arrival of the governor on the
afternoon train. Luckily I did not have to divide my time
between two sections of the marsh, for this new notable had
been an occupant of the same flat where I was watching the
buff-breasted sandpiper. I had casually noted this gull for

Among the Guests Registered 159

two reasons: one was that the other gulls, which it passed by,
or which approached it, resented its presence and invariably
made one or more vicious jabs at it, as barnyard chickens
might peck at a strange hen. The other reason was that,
when it faced me, it showed a black area on either side of the
head which vaguely resembled the sideburns of a duck hawk
—markings which I had never seen before and which I first
concluded must be a transition stage in the plumage of a
local gull. But on the second day, when the noise of a speed-
boat sent every bird on the island into noisy flight, the dark
wing tips and white along the wings satisfied me that I was
looking at a bird which to me was entirely new.

I did not rush my search. I did not find it easy to observe
the bird even though I had plenty of time. The small triangu-
lar-shaped island had a tiny low spot in its center which the
stranger insisted on occupying and which it left only when
other gulls crowded it out. I was on vacation. The marsh lay
under a warm September sun; the air was comfortable so
that a shirt was unnecessary except as a protection against
sunburn. I could hear yellow-legs and Wilson snipes calling,
and frequently they passed so close that I caught the sound
of the wind in their wings. Often the least sandpipers and
other small peeps landed near and fed in rather close forma-
tion. There was much to see and little reason to leave. My
notes on the bird were fragmentary and read something like
this: "acts like a large tern, floats high with tail held more
erect than other gulls present, pearl-gray mantle, white mark-
ing around all but front of eye, white edging on rear of wing,
legs dark. . . ." With the aid of these and many other notes
I learned that the bird was a Franklin gull, once called
Franklin's Rosy Gull, and popularly known as the prairie
pigeon or prairie dove, a bird which had been recorded as
a Pacific Northwest visitor not more than two or three times,
and had never been reported in King County or in our city
marsh. The colored movies proved sufficiently detailed to

160 Union Bay

substantiate the sight record, and the taking, a few miles
south, of two specimens by a collector was additional con-
firmation.

I was greatly interested, while checking the records, in
noting the attitude which many of the conservative ornithol-
ogists took toward the matter of range. It has always seemed
to me, and I think my view is substantiated by my observa-
tions, that range is often too flexible a thing to be outlined
by sections, counties, townships, or even states, and that no
man is in possession of enough facts to make the statement
that "the range of this bird is as follows," and then proceed
to outline it exactly. I submit that every statement of terri-
tory needs qualifying by some such phrase as "present in-
formation and records indicate a range as follows." In the
case of the Franklin gull, nearly every authority from the
time of the great Elliott Coues outlined a range which has
been progressively enlarged by succeeding writers who, in
turn, have had their arbitrary limits set aside by additional
information, so that when we come to the South American
marine bird authority, Robert C. Murphy, we find that he
has seen countless numbers of Franklin gulls off the shore of
the desert portions of Pacific South America— a prairie
plough-follower wintering in southern oceanic waters.

I felt well repaid for my examination of the information
regarding the Franklin gull. I found that it is a highly re-
spected and welcome bird in the great wheat districts where
it follows the plough in huge flocks and sweeps down upon
the wealth of insect life upturned by the ploughing. It builds
colonies of nests in the marshes and at the edges of the
prairie lakes, using the reeds for a foundation and strength-
ening them against the normal winds and waves. It flies
about the plains and takes many grasshoppers on the wing—
a habit which is largely responsible for the esteem in which
the bird is held. Its home is normally on the prairies east of
the Rocky Mountains and reaches north into the wheat-

Among the Guests Registered 161

raising area of Canada. Few birds are seen on the eastern
seashore. Just what brought this gentle stranger to our marsh
is, of course, something I cannot answer. I would like to
know where it went from here and if ultimately it joined its
kind on the desert coast of South America.

Another bird which visits the marsh infrequently brings
a feeling of regret along with the interest it arouses. I refer
to the large bird with whitish head and white underparts, the
osprey or fish hawk, once a regular resident, then a frequent
visitor, and later driven from the scene by advancing civiliza-
tion and the direct action of man. One of our early ornithol-
ogists told me the story of a pair of ospreys which formerly
nested on an island in Union Bay for at least twelve years.
There they raised their young and took the fish necessary for
their existence. The number of fishermen increased with the
rapid growth of the city and, as is always true in such situa-
tions, the waters no longer yielded in their former abundance.
My friend said that the failure of the trout supply was
ascribed to every cause except the logical ones— the great
increase in the number of fishermen and the practical lack of
control of the size of their take. Among the agents blamed
for the lack of supply were the ospreys, and this in spite of
the fact that there was only one pair in the vicinity. But an
osprey lives on fish and though trout, being a hard fish to
take, probably were only a small part of their diet, it was de-
cided that the birds should be eliminated. One day, some
public-minded citizen, probably quite sincere in his belief
that he was doing a service to humanity by denying this
one pair of birds their right to existence, "shot up the nest,"
and destroyed the two birds. My old friend, the ornithologist,
who was also an expert fisherman, remarked that there was
no noticeable increase in the supply of fish: the only effect
of the shooting was that this splendid white-headed air
master, with its flashing light underparts, was never again
seen swooping down into its home on the island.

162 Union Bay

There are still some ospreys left in the state, and when
I have flatboated on the Snoqualmie, the Stillaguamish, or
the Yakima rivers, I have often heard a cry overhead and
have looked up to see one or two of these birds as they
followed the bends of the river in search of sustenance. Only
once have I seen an osprey feeding in the marsh; at that time
it took a fair-sized catfish from shallow water and ate it
while I approached with my camera and managed to photo-
graph it. The reappearance of the bird has become an event
of greater significance as time passes, for since this incident
five years ago I have not observed the bird over the marsh.

I have the records of other famous casual -and irregular
visitors: the bald eagles which have never nested in the area
but which pass infrequently while on migration; the black-
bellied plover, the small shorebird for which I have always
had a tender regard. It has only to raise its wings and it
shows a black patch which instantly identifies it. There was
the red-throated loon, a handsome migrant which died al-
most in front of the canoehouse after a thoughtless lad had
shot it with a .22 rifle. The only consolation is that its skin
is now in the museum on the campus. The whistling swans
which have appeared about every other year have given local
observers a fine chance to see them for they have allowed
remarkably close approach.

The birds mentioned in this chapter are neither regular nor
frequent in their visits. I have seen but one or two from
this class in an entire year, but I have been content to Watch
the normal flow of life in this marsh, to witness what would
be called ordinary routine in city life, and to know that,
sooner or later, the canoe would flush a strange bird and
send me to the records in an effort to learn its name, its
histoiy, its habits, and the places from which it had come and
to which it was going.

A Firm Seat

/4.

A FRIEND OF MINE WHO LEANS

much more to under- than to over-exercise, and who im-
presses me as being rather proud of his inactivity, once said
that there were two places where a man needed a firm seat.
One was in riding a horse and the other was when taking a
restful vacation. Evidently he had been investigating hobbies
for he said to me:

"What about these marsh trips of yours?"

"What do you mean?"

"You talk a lot of paddling here and there. You sound as
if you are always on the move. Don't you ever stop and rest?"
he asked.

"Certainly I do, and often."

"What happens then?" he inquired. "You see nothing until
you start moving again?"

"You see plenty if you keep your eyes open."

"And if you don't keep them open?"

"You get a better nap than you do at home, and with
plenty of cushions and nothing to disturb you. But your nap
will be short," I said.

"Why?"

"There's too much to look at."

163

164 Union Bay

"Honestly?"

"Sure enough," I said. "Ill tell you what I'll do. I go over
there once, or more, each week. The next time I'll stay in
one place and make a record of what goes on and what I
think of it. Then you can look over the notes."

"Good," he said. "That option of a nap with every canoe
trip sort of appeals to me."

It was just twelve when I arrived in Gadwall Cove. The
University chimes struck with a clearness which indicated a
fresh northwest wind. The inlet, equal in area to about two
city blocks, could be reached by narrow entries both, of
which permitted a limited view of Union Bay. I beached the
canoe at the edge of the bulrushes so that I could look all
about the cove, into the bay and ship canal. Cattails sur-
rounded the area and in a few places made little clumps of
vegetation in the center. It had been cloudy in the morning
and the patches of water lilies had no open blossoms, but
within half an hour after my arrival the sun had changed
their tight greenness into a mass of white and yellow. .

I adjusted the pillows about me, got out my notebook and
leisurely ate the cheese, sandwiches, milk, chocolate, and
cookies which I had brought. I had begun work at six so that
I could get away early. To loaf now was pleasant. My dark
glasses brought the sky into more brilliant contrast and
made the clouds brighter and the sky a darker blue. Bird
songs were missing, nesting season was over, the russet-
backed thrush had stopped uttering its sharp whirt from the
bushes. But I heard many other sounds. The bees hummed as
they moved about in the blooms. Some goldfinches called as
they passed. It was time to begin my notes.

Tuesday, August 4, Union Bay marsh.
Weather, sunny-cloudy; wind, northwest, warm. Time,
one p.m.

A Firm Seat

165

My canoe is now in Gadwall Cove, grounded so that the
view on three sides is nearly unobstructed. I have just
finished my lunch. Loosestrife blooms hang almost directly
over me and their long purple heads are constantly visited
by bees. Big blue flies occasionally approach the canoe and
add their buzzing to that of the honey hunters. The wind
sweeps the cattails back and forth so that they make a light
and pleasing sound as they touch. Now and then I hear a
noise which makes me think somebody is near, and I look
about to see if the voices come from a boat. I understand why
people lost in the woods become confused and think they
hear voices because I often note such resemblances when I
am out. The streams in the mountains, the whistles or calls
of some of the birds, the calling of frogs, and even such small
things as the noise of insects frequently resemble the talking
or walking of a man. I hear now a sound just behind me that

166 Union Bay

simulates the even step of a light foot walking on autumn
leaves. There is no person behind me, and I do not know
what the cause can be until I turn around and find that the
projecting canoe paddle is being struck by the regular sway-
ing of a wind-blown cattail leaf which is just dry enough to
make the sound.

The cove is a comfortable place. The mixture of various
sounds becomes quite soothing.. I pull my old tan hat closely
down and fail to regard the scene with the attention required
for first-class observation. My thoughts turn to Billy, the
older of the two dogs belonging to the canoehouse manager.
When I took out the canoe the dog had just- been brought
back from a veterinary who had removed a head of foxtail
grass which had worked into the animal's ear. The dog had
been given gas and he looked thoroughly done in. I had al-
ways considered the relationship between this man and his
two dogs an ideal one. There was never any monkey business
or domination or sentimentality. It was an actual working
partnership with mutual obligation and respect. Today they
had sat on the bench together. The man said nothing but
petted the dog occasionally as it nuzzled close to him. I
thought it was a most agreeable sight.

A boat whistling for the bridge awakes me, or possibly
it is the noise of the bees which pass within a foot of my
head. I watch them take nectar. My drowsiness vanishes.
Each bee goes methodically up or down the long spike,
working on all sides of it, and then, as if satisfied that its
possibilities are exhausted, moves on to another head. I con-
sider this apparent draining of the flowers on each head quite
efficient, until I notice that when one bee leaves another soon
takes its place. Whether the first one fails to extract all the
nectar from the flower or whether the new bee visits only
the flowers overlooked by the first is more than I am pre-
pared to say, but I observe that the procedure is followed
time after time.

A Firm Seat 167

Two damsel flies land on the masses of tiny duckweed
plants floating near the boat. At first I do not know whether
they are feeding or resting. The fact that they make short
moves from one part of the mat to another seems to indicate
the former. The male is quite gay with blue marks on the
head and at the end of the abdomen. The female can easily
be distinguished by its plain straw color. Then they fly to a
lily pad and I watch the female reach under the edge of the
leaf with its abdomen curved, evidently for the purpose of
depositing eggs. A bursting bubble of marsh gas agitates the
water and sends them into quick flight, but they do not fly
far and I watch them repeat the process.

The marsh is no exception to the rule that most communi-
ties have their distinctive sounds, so that by listening to the
combination it is possible to place not only the area but the
season as well. This marsh, with its mixture of natural and
man-made sounds, is especially distinctive. Such things as
the roar of planes warming up at the Sand Point Naval Air
Station, the call of the coxswain as he raps with his blocks to
set the pace for a University shell, the hourly blast of the
ferry whistle— all help to identify the location. When man-
made sounds are combined with bird songs and cries and the
splashes of the mammals, any sound detective (if there is
such a specialist in the sleuthing profession) could easily
make a positive identification. Today there is no activity in
the stadium, on the practice field, or in the shells, but loud
sounds of bridge siren and bells, the horn of the ferryboat,
the planes at Sand Point, and the campus chimes contribute
all necessary information for placement. The total absence
of general bird song, together with the cry of a yellow-legs
which never appears until early in August, and the loud-
speaker of the summer excursion boat which operates be-
tween Lake Washington and Puget Sound, places the season
of the year as summer and the month as August.

I pull out a strand of water smartweed which projects

168 Union Bay

from the surface of the water at the rear of the canoe. It is a
valuable plant because the waterfowl esteem it highly both
for food and for cover. It is a near relative of the plant called
lady's-thumb, a troublesome and widely distributed weed
which derives its name from the fact that the leaves are gen-
erally marked with a dark blotch as if they had been bruised
by pressure. Several legends are connected with this plant.
One concerns its attempted use. as a poultice by Mary, who
pinched the leaves when she found them useless as a cure
for the injured hand of Joseph. I have always thought that
only lady's-thumb, one variety of the smartweeds, carried
these blotches, but many of the leaves of the plant in .my
hands bear the same mark as its land relative. This water
plant will soon be covered with a small and inconspicuous
bloom of a pinkish cast and borne scantily on a raceme, quite
different from the rather solid heads of the shore variety.

I look about the cove, formerly a purple circle of loose-
strife and so shallow that I could not force the canoe through
it. Now that the water depth has increased, the loosestrife
remains only in the shallower portions, and the center has
been abandoned to the carp which come annually in numbers
to spawn. The cove is muddy then, but now it is quiet and
the water clear.

The wind increases in strength and the overmature petals
of the loosestrife are blown into the water in quantities great
enough to make floating patches of color. The University
chimes ring. As if waiting for the sound, several mallards
start bathing and a pied-billed grebe gives its barking call.
I wonder if the call is an indication of a second brood or
whether it is just a leftover from the first. The mallards bathe
noisily like a group of boys; they force the water through
their plumage and then begin to shake themselves vigorously.
This should make a good slogan for children: "If the water
birds bathe regularly, why can't you?" The clouds over the
Cascade Range have formed a wall which shuts off the view.

A Firm Seat 169

The wind keeps the cottonwoods on the nearby island mov-
ing briskly enough so that their rustling can be heard plainly.

Two paddlers go by in a white canoe bearing the name
Cupid. They are husky lads, stripped to the waist, with a
good stroke, and lots of power in their well-developed shoul-
ders. As they say about promising young politicians, they
will go far. They are headed for the lake and it may be that
the gunwales conceal a camping outfit. Flatties begin to
come: some trying to get out under their own sails, others
towed in a string by a powerboat, all in a hurry to join the
many others which seem to put out from nowhere the very
instant that a good breeze comes up.

The discordant clatter of a kingfisher attracts my attention
as it hovers over one of the entrances to the cove. I count to
twenty-one at second intervals before it ceases hovering and
dives into the water below. A clump of cattails obscures
the splash so that I do not see the attack, but as the bird flies
away it carries nothing. A second bird joins it and they dash
at each other in mock combat, rising higher and higher, and
making harsh noises. Finally they level off and fly away.

Bees. Do they live in the marsh? If not, where do they
come from? I see few except when the big honey crop is
being harvested. How does this enormous aggregation keep
busy at other times during the season? How far do bees
ordinarily forage? I must try to find out. Are these all wild
bees or are there a few hives left of the many that used to
be seen around the north end of the district? I see one bee
struggling in the water. It is near a plant stalk but seems
unable to gain a foothold. I pull it out and place it on a
blanket in the canoe where it dries in the wind and sun and
then flies away. I suppose that the flycatchers and the swal-
lows take many of them, and those which fall are soon picked
up by fish.

The damsel flies come around again because they like the
warm and comparatively windless corner where the canoe is

170 Union Bay

beached. Then a dragonfly rests on a projecting branch.
The insects are both of the same general color pattern, a
pleasing light and vivid blue, similar to that so often used on
the shutters of modern cottages. Both are banded with black
but are not close enough so that I can compare color pattern.
The difference between these two insects superficially re-
minds me of the difference between the swifts and the swal-
lows. In each case there is the same general method of gain-
ing a living, but there is also a great difference in their range
and speed. The swift is among the fastest of the birds and
has a feeding range probably much in excess of one hundred
miles a day. The swallows are less active and operate in a
much smaller territory. It is so with the damsel flies and the
dragonflies. Both are predatory in their habits, in their
nymph, or premature, stages when they live under water,
and when, in maturity, they fly about the marsh. The
dragonfly has a speed and darting habit which reminds one
of a hummingbird. The damsel fly is slower, more indecisive
in its manner of flight. The insects which have been perching
near me leave almost at the same time, the damsel flies to
alight a short distance away, and the dragonfly to disappear
over the tops of the cattails. The nymphs of both varieties
are probably in the tangle underneath the canoe, lurking in
places where they can seize unlucky victims which may come
within range.

The additional warmth of the afternoon, or the fresh
breeze, seems to stimulate activity among the birds. Cliff
swallows make their squeaking flight sounds as they con-
stantly fly overhead and hawk for insects. I can remember
when there were few of them around the marsh but now
they are plentiful in season. This demonstrates the fact that
man's influence is not always for the bad. The use of nesting
places provided by the University buildings has increased
their numbers so that they are now the commonest swallow
about the marsh.

A Firm Seat 171

The surface of the water around the canoe is covered with
debris, mostly small material. Cattail leaves, pieces of sub-
merged plants that have been broken off by storms, floating
duckweed, fragments of shore plants, odd things such as a
moth's wing, moulted feathers, and floating pollen are part
of the mixture, most of which eventually sinks, for there is
no current to carry it away and little wind to transport it. I
would like to know the depth of material that is annually
added to the marsh floor, how much of a deposit it would
make after it had settled and become thoroughly consoli-
dated. How long does it normally require to raise the bottom
an inch? I have seen many so-called drowned lakes in the
mountains, but their disappearance was almost entirely due
to the material carried in by flood and avalanche. Except
where man dumps material, the marsh is an example of an
area being filled by its own debris, almost uninfluenced by
outside contributions.

I hear the loud and, to me, joyous call of martins overhead.
I have not visited Green Lake this year to see if they have
begun their annual gathering in the willows at the south
end. As many as eight thousand birds have been estimated
to sweep into the low trees at dusk. They may be seen com-
ing, high in the sky, from all directions, and bound for this
one meeting place on the shore of the small lake inside the
city limits. There they fly and mill about until just before
dark, when they drop into the trees with a noise that re-
sembles that of a breaking wave. Early in the morning they
leave and return, probably to the places where they have
nested. Will they continue to come to the Green Lake
willows? The city has recently erected a concrete structure
for viewing water sports at the edge of the lake less than a
city block from the trees where the concentrations took place.
Perhaps this spectacular roosting, the only one ever reported
in the Pacific Northwest, will come to an abrupt ending.

A bullfrog calls from inside the marsh. I wish that the call

172 Union Bay

could be heard more often. It is a common sound in many
parts of the East, but its hoarse deepness astonishes and
startles every visitor to the marsh who has never heard it
before. I used to see hundreds of their tadpoles, but I have
not seen one for two years.

Bubbles come up from all over the cove. Sometimes they
are so regular, small, and evenly spaced that they look like
rain drops. Today they vary in size. Some are as big as a
teacup and reach the surface with a faint gulping sound;
others rise in a little cluster that agitates the water and
makes it appear as if a group of small fish were playing at
the surface. There must be a tremendous amount of decay
taking place on the marsh bottom during warm weather. I
am informed that one product of this disintegration is marsh
gas, scientifically known as methane, and that it is inflam-
mable.

The hours pass as I watch and take my ease. I hear the
high call of a hairy woodpecker, a rolling repetition that
somewhat resembles that of a kingfisher but lacks its harsh-
ness. The campus bird list, written some years ago, calls them
scarce. But since the pamphlet was issued the trees in parts
of the area have made considerable growth, and now these
white and black woodpeckers are. frequently seen.

My eye catches movement on some debris floating near
the canoe. I lift the small bit of vegetation and discover a
tiny brown grub, plump in the center and tapered almost
to a point at both ends. I put it on the gunwale. When it
starts moving I find— much to my surprise, for it appears too
fat for such bending exercises— that it is a "looper." It pro-
jects its anterior end forward in the air, then lowers it, and
draws its rear end up and repeats the operation. I stir up the
vegetation with a twig and find a dozen others feeding on
this small bit of floating waste.

I keep watching for young carp but see none. In fact, I
have never seen any in the marsh in spite of the great amount

A Firm Seat 173

of spawning that goes on there. What is the period of in-
cubation of the eggs? How old are the young fish before
they leave for more open water? A friend of mine in the
fisheries department has told me that a year-old carp will
weigh a pound. He also said that the carp eats certain para-
sitic worms and helps to control the disease in fish called
distomiasis which is due to that worm. And to think that I
have spoken badly of the carp!

A coot, completely black, except for its white bill, leads its
one chick along the edge of the cattails. The young bird is
reddish in color and looks nothing like the parent. I rarely
see them when so young, for the old birds are wary and do
not allow the chicks to stray far from cover. The birds may
have discovered the fat grubs. They pick rapidly at the float-
ing vegetation and pay no attention to me and the canoe. A
mallard hen makes a great noise as it lands nearby and
sends them into the cattails.

I hear the call of birds above me and look up to see night-
hawks flying. Their high lisping note sounds continually, and
the white patches of the underside of their long wings can
be seen plainly as their bodies, blackish-gray and brown,
swing back and forth in their search for food. Apparently
some marsh insect has hatched in quantities large enough
to attract these adept hunters. They are members of the
goatsucker family, and are like the nightjars so much referred
to in English literature. They come close, wheeling and twist-
ing in their flight.

I look at my watch. It is nearly five, and although I hear
the call of the pied-billed grebe again and see abittern flying
low, it is time for me to go. In half an hour I am at the
canoehouse float.

I typed my notes in much more detail than usual and
mailed a copy to my friend. He met me about a week later.
"Those canoe pillows/' he said. "Are they soft?"

174 Union Bay

"Like the mattresses the motels advertise. And the man-
ager even puts in a blanket to pull over you if you want it."

"I'll try it sometime," he said. "That prospect of a marine
nap rings the bell. And that report you sent: it's as long as a
chapter in a book. You went to a lot of trouble for me."

"Don't flatter yourself," I said. "It wasn't for you. I always
make notes and these were longer than usual because I
stayed in one place."

"What do you make notes for?"

"For a permanent record, I guess. I'm always trying to
compare what I see today with what I saw some time ago.
The simplest way it to put facts in writing where I can al-
ways refer to them."

How a New Water Witch Came
to the Marsh

15

* — ' ♦ AUGUST HAD COME, THE MONTH OF

activity which caused me to spend more time in the canoe
than I really had to spare. I paddled through the canal for
the tenth time in as many days. Then I poled quietly through
the lily pads and toward the floating nest which I had been
keeping under observation. My canoe almost touched it be-
fore a dark bird slipped off the pile and disappeared instantly
and noiselessly under the water among the lilies. I looked
at the nest. Yesterday it had contained six eggs. Now there
were only five. Was this to be the day? Was I to witness the
hatching that I had taken so much pains to prepare for?

For ten days I had inspected the nest of this small diving
bird called the pied-billed grebe, a resident which could
easily be identified by its dumpy brown body, almost total
lack of tail, and its snake-like head. I wanted to watch the
emergence and behavior of the young chicks. I knew there
was little possibility of being present when the great event
began, but I thought that if I made repeated visits until the
first egg had hatched I could then remain at the nest until
at least one of the other eggs opened. Nothing had hap-
pened until this Sunday morning. But now the slimy floating

175

176 Union Bay

nest lacked one soiled brown egg, and it was quite evident
that this was the time for me to stay on the job. I could have
picked no better day: the sun shone, the light breeze was
comfortably cool, and the water still.

I returned to the canoehouse, made the short drive to my
home, packed a lunch, my equipment, and a book, and re-
turned to the nest. I found everything as I had left it.

I made my preparations unhurriedly for I anticipated a
long and perhaps tedious wait. I placed the canoe in the lily
pads in the proper position, then put out an anchor at both
ends and further steadied it by forcing the paddles into the
mud close to the boat. I decided where I wanted to use my
movie camera, measured the distance from the spot to the
nest, and calculated the proper exposure with my light meter.
I knew that it would be difficult to get a good picture, for the
nest was a dull greenish-brown, the eggs were a soiled tan,
and the newcomer would be inconspicuous against the back-
ground. There would be no decided contrasts to bring out
the detail. Since I was not in a movie studio, there could
be no chance of manipulating lights and reflectors. I would
have to photograph under natural conditions and hope that
the result would be reasonably good. These preparations
completed, I looked around me. •

I was at the side of a platter-sized floating nest in the
middle of a fifty-foot circle of blooming water lilies. To the
north lay the residential section, to the south the riiarsh, to
the west the University grounds, and to the east the bay and
its opening into Lake Washington. Running through the bay
in an east and west direction and only a few rods from the
canoe stretched the Lake Washington canal.

A strange place, I thought, to be photographing wildlife!
Much better, it would seem, as an area to get material for
an article on sports possibilities in the Pacific Northwest! As
if to confirm that thought, a cabin cruiser came through the

How a New Water Witch Came to the Marsh

177

canal with its crew gaily singing. At the conclusion of the
song there was a splash and five empty beer bottles struck
the water. Three sank but the gentle breeze began to move
the remaining two in my direction while the boat moved on.
I could hear the songs until the boat passed under the bridge.
Canoes and skiffs carried picnickers through the canal, power
and sailboats were filled to the limit, and an excursion
steamer passed, its decks crowded with interested tourists.
A dog chased a ball thrown by its master on a lawn across
the bay. Automobile horns sounded from streets on three
sides of the water.

Little speedboats stirred up surprisingly large waves,
which would have wrecked the nest if the intervening lily
pads had not absorbed their force and converted them into
gentle swells on which the loosely tied and floating structure
easily rode. Students from the nearby training field made

178 Union Bay

practice flights. Sounds, odors, and activities emphasized the
presence of human life.

There I was, on that August day, alone in my canoe, just
outside all this clatter of planes, boats, automobiles, and
songsters, waiting for a new pied-billed grebe to emerge
from a small egg in a soiled and disheveled nest composed
of soaked and partly decayed vegetation. Nothing disturbed
me where I sat. The activity was at my back. I faced the
quiet nest and its five eggs, and behind that the smooth water
of the marsh inlets, the lazy movement of the cattails, and
the yellow of blooming beggar's ticks. The human life passed
me closely, but when I turned I watched it in the same way
that I would have peered in at the action from outside the
glass walls of the sound room in a movie studio.

I began to read an old copy of George Borrow's Wild
Wales which I had brought along with me. I was soon with
him on his walking tour through the high country of Wales,
a trip which was somewhat interrupted by the constant pass-
ing of the anxious parents which continually uttered their
plaintive keck. Sometimes they came so close that sudden
fear conquered their anxiety; then they would stop and, with
no agitation of the water, sink out of sight. Sometimes, and
equally quietly, they would look over the situation by just
projecting their heads as a submarine might project its peri-
scope. Their vertical control was remarkable: specific gravity
apparently was changed by a slight compression of the
body so that, at will, they could sink just as a water-logged
piece of wood might sink, without external effort or move-
ment. Then they would go silently into the rushes and re-
main out of sight for half an hour or more. I am no dis-
turber of nests and would have left this one had I thought
my presence might have caused them to desert it, but I knew
that the brooding was so far along that nothing would in-
duce the grebes to quit. I was also sure that there was no
danger of the eggs chilling in the warm sun.

How a New Water Witch Came to the Marsh 179

I read for perhaps three-quarters of an hour and then put
the book away. It was too much like taking a radio to a ball
game so that I could listen to the report of another game.
The highlands of Wales, whose beauty had always absorbed
my attention, could not compete with the clear notes of the
robins, the sight of a busy spotted sandpiper teetering along
the pads, the passing of the gulls, the delicate foliage in the
water below, the freedom of the open air, and the cushioned
canoe. Together, they provided relaxation that called for
something other than books. It was enough just to sit and
wait.

I did not turn when I first heard the noise of an oarsman
behind me. Small boats explored the marsh nearly every day.
They splashed along steadily and seldom stopped. This one
was an exception, for I heard it push into the bank of the
little bay, and then the sound of oars being pulled into the
boat. Quiet followed. When I looked up a few minutes later,
I saw a small boat and a college-age girl. Her hair was light,
her blue costume comfortably scanty, and her tan indicated
many hours in the sun. She was busily sketching the scene
before her. She did not turn my way and I did not speak.

I looked at the nest and saw one egg move perceptibly—
undoubtedly something would happen soon. I checked my
camera and the canoe position again to see if conditions had
been altered by the movement of the sun. The ghTs concen-
tration on sketching had not been quite so intense as I had
thought, for a clear voice said:

"If curiosity kills people like it kills cats, I'm afraid it's
going to be all up with me. I've tried to guess and can't de-
cide what you are doing. Would it break any rules to tell
me?"

"I'm hoping to photograph a young bird as it comes out of
the egg."

"My word," she said. "It's no wonder you are busy. Do you
mind if I come a little closer?"

180 Union Bay

"Not a bit. Bring your boat just inside the pads. I'll hand
you my binoculars on a paddle and you can see the show
just as well as if you had a ringside seat."

The girl talked little, but I did learn that she worked in a
downtown office and came often to the marsh to sketch. I
answered her questions: the bird was a pied-billed grebe and
was widely distributed over the American continent. I had
seen it in the East, in Texas, and on Lake Patzcuaro in
Mexico, had wondered if it nested there and, if it did, how
the eggs and young could escape the many water snakes
which swam about in the shallows. The word pied-billed re-
ferred to the black band on the bill, and the word grebe was
said to pertain to the crest which decorated some of the
other species of grebes. This bird had no crest. Its common
name was hell-diver, or dabchick, or water witch. It looked
like— I pointed to one of the old birds near the bulrushes.
It nested regularly in the marsh but probably did not spend
more than a third of its time in the open. It was late for a
grebe to nest, so late that this was almost a record for the
state. People did not eat grebes. They had no particularly
harmful habits. If they had any use, aside from their beauty
and interest, it was as a target for hunters who could not
resist shooting at any moving object regardless of its in-
offensiveness. There were probably a dozen pairs nesting in
the marsh. I knew because I had heard them calling during
the mating season. It wasn't a duck, though it superficially
resembled one. A duck has fully webbed feet, while those of
a grebe are only partially webbed or lobed. They didn't sing
—even their best friend would admit that. They had a call
which sounded something like the barking of a small dog.
A teen-age operator swung his speedboat into a turn
which drove a breaking series of waves toward us but, as
before, the lily pads reduced them to quietness. I ignored
him and he did not repeat the swing. Had I raised a fuss he

How a Nevj> Water Witch Came to the Marsh 181

was of the age that would have made him repeat the process
to show how little he cared for my objections.

The egg moved considerably. I pointed to it. The girl
looked and nodded.

"It's a regular drama," she said.

It was a regular drama. New wild things were about to
come into the world in the midst of disturbing speedboats,
curious humans, and all the hazards of weather. There were
many predators which would like to find them— fish, birds,
and mammals. Hungry creatures would daily scan all likely
places where such events might occur, and if they found
the eggs or young quick destruction followed. Many times I
have found an empty and sometimes torn nest. It amazed
me that these locations ever escaped the predators, even
though the sitting bird blended well with the surroundings
and pulled vegetation over the eggs when it left. I was sure
that tragedy must have already struck at this spot, for I heard
no sounds from, and caught no sight of, the bird out of the
first egg. It should have been close to the place where it was
hatched, peeping its high note and watching for its parents
and food. Something must have removed it on the first day
of its existence. Something almost always happened to part
of the nestlings. The individual bird's fate had no place in
the consideration of the perpetuation of its kind. There must
be enough eggs laid and enough young birds survive to in-
sure the continuance of the species, and if this survival was
sufficient, the fate of the nonsurvivors seemed of little im-
portance.

There were still five eggs in the nest. Another bird was
soon to appear to increase the hatching percentage. A hole
opened and a sharp-tipped bill projected. I heard the thin
peeping of the inmate. The girl had the glasses to her eyes
and I turned the cracked side of the egg toward her so that
she might watch it better. She nodded her thanks. The one

182 Union Bay

egg tipped and swayed, but the others remained as motion-
less and inanimate as if they had been made of china.

I photographed the action. In the hatching I had wit-
nessed a couple of years before, the egg had been ring-
checked and the process of emergence required more than
ten minutes because the young bird had difficulty in free-
ing itself from its cell. This hatching was a thing of speed
and precision, for in less than five minutes after the first pro-
jection of the bill the last convulsive struggle ended and the
throbbing bird lay beside the two halves of the container.
It had come from a shell about an inch and three-quarters
long. It would have taken an engineer to figure how it could
have been stored in so small a space.

This bird was not helpless and naked like the young tree
swallows I had discovered the week before in an old piling.
This infant was precocial, that is to say, it was born fully
clothed in down and capable of leaving the nest. Its feet
were huge for so small a creature and must have taken up a
considerable part of the egg space. Its body was completely
covered with black and white down, and its large bill was
tipped with an £gg tooth, a shell-breaking tool discarded
soon after birth.

The newcomer lay motionless for a few minutes, paying no
attention to the camera when it was near, or to me when I
lifted it carefully and changed its position a trifle. The sun
shone upon wet and badly disarranged down. The infant was
not dainty in appearance like a young chicken. The strange
quarter-inch stripes, the tousled appearance of the head, and
its huge feet and bill gave it a tough appearance not usually
associated with an infant of any kind. As young as it was, it
displayed strength and energy, and proved it by struggling
over the rounded top of the nest and down its sloping sides
to the water.

"Don't tell me," said the girl, "that it's bath time already."

It wasn't bath time. The bird paused at the water's edge

How a New Water Witch Came to the Marsh 183

and remained motionless for a time. Then began a series of
struggles in which the greater part of the nest was covered.
Projecting vegetation blocked the way, feet became entangled
in little loops of nest material, miniature hills proved too
steep to surmount and had to be detoured, rests were neces-
sary. All difficulties were successfully negotiated and in a
way which spoke well for the endurance and strength of the
young explorer. The bird heaved and struggled and looked
about with its large baleful-appearing eyes. Although the sun
shone brightly, the plumage did not dry rapidly and still
retained its disheveled aspect.

At first the grebe showed no consciousness of my pres-
ence, but when I passed a stick in front of it about an hour
and a half after its emergence the bird would shrink from it.
At the end of another hour some reflex would cause it to
strike at the stick with its bill. I hoped to see it enter the
water, but in spite of many approaches it stopped at the
brink.

"No bath today, I guess," said the girl. "And I am afraid
that I will have to be going. Thanks for this inside show of
wildlife. I'll never forget it."

I waited for another hour, but by then the light was no
longer suitable for color photography and I pulled up my
anchors and left.

I returned to the nest the next morning. Only two of the
muddy brown eggs remained. The shrill peepings of young
birds from the lily pads explained why. I had trouble find-
ing the newcomers. I searched for probably ten minutes be-
fore I located all three of them, the two younger ones almost
covered by the rolled edges of lily pads and the bird of
yesterday floating on the shining water and sprawled out
like a frog.

The old birds did not show the timidity of the previous
day. They came close enough so that the black band on their

184 Union Bay

bills showed plainly. I could see the brown of their eyes in
their snaky-looking heads. They uttered their anxious alarm
notes, then would submerge and come up near the canoe
to watch me again. They are normally very wary and timid,
and I suspect that it is only in the first days after the hatch-
ing that the old display this boldness. When the young are
a few days older they respond to calls and, after they have
climbed on the old birds' backs, the whole party heads for
the shelter of the rushes.

The parent birds did not settle down. From time to time
they would approach and beat the surface with their wings
to produce splashes which sounded like planks being thrown
into the water. The noise produced startled me. Air, im-
prisoned by the wings, must have been released as they
struck the water. The resulting sound was as loud as the ex-
plosion of a paper bag.

Once I had located the young I had no trouble in watch-
ing them, for their incessant peeping indicated their exact
position. They did not conceal their presence. In such cir-
cumstances many birds would flatten out and lie still, but
these young grebes did neither. They crawled clumsily about
on the pads. The bird of the day before could be easily recog-
nized. Its appearance was much different from that of the
late arrivals: its down was smoother and its whole appear-
ance smarter. Perhaps this was natural, for it had lived sev-
eral times as long as the others. It was twen ty-f our . hours old
while the other two may have been out of the egg for only
three or four.

It displayed more wariness than the younger birds. When
I moved my camera forward it dived and disappeared under
the pads, and then I saw it come into the open for a yard or
so before the pads concealed it again. I could not relocate it
until I heard its peeping. It was close to the canoe. I pushed
it out a little way in order to take a picture. It dived again,
not a bad performance when I considered that it was not

How a New Water Witch Came to the Marsh 185

much bigger than a wrist watch and that these dives were
probably its first.

I found it again alongside the canoe. I tried a new plan
by scooping it up with my hand and placing it on my wind-
breaker inside the bow of the canoe. And there it sat. Just
a baby bird, but what a baby: uglier than the ugly duckling
of the fairy tale, clothed in down, striped like a convict's
costume. Few would think it related to the sleek but drab-
colored parents which hovered about in the cattails. The bird
kept its eye on me and did not move.

To pose quietly while I took a few pictures seemed all the
concession it was willing to make, for suddenly it climbed
over the margin of my coat, leaving behind an oily spot
which the cleaner never succeeded in removing. I put the
bird back on the garment but it would not remain. It was
through with art. I, too, thought that it had done its share
and so I dropped it into the water. My work was about
finished and I put the canoe in motion.

I turned when I had gone about a canoe length. The game
was not over for my young friend. There it was, its small
body shaking with the effort of following the canoe. I
stopped for a moment, then paddled again. The bird re-
sumed its pursuit.

I picked it up and took it back to the lily pads. It fol-
lowed again as I left.

I could only speculate over the reason for its actions. Per-
haps it was that the world seemed too wide and sunny, too
unprotected and public. The overhanging side of the canoe
offered comparative darkness, quietness, a feeling of protec-
tion, and solitude. It may be that instinct warned it that
open spaces meant hawks and other predators.

I couldn't let the little fellow venture beyond the reach
of its parents. It might have stopped within a few feet, but
I picked it up and pushed the bow of the canoe into the lily
pads. This time I dropped the bird into the nest.

186 Union Bay

It must have felt a sense of security there, for it made no
attempt to follow. It peeped vigorously and appeared con-
tented. As I paddled across the still waters of the bay I
marveled at this small creature which,, though less than
twenty-four hours old, had already been through adven-
tures never before experienced by any of its kind in the
marsh.

Teeters, Nods, and Bobs

M ^S+ INTEREST IN THE ACTIONS OF BIRDS

and mammals is not always proportional to the importance
of those actions. Frequently it is based on simple curiosity
because the purposes are not easily explained. I suppose that
it is really not imperative to know why birds engage in those
regular spasmodic or jerky movements known as teetering,
nodding, bobbing, or dipping. I suspect that if the move-
ments were explainable the solution would be of no direct
benefit to mankind, and that if I would mention it to our
somewhat blase youths they would merely answer with two
pungent words, "So what?" But personally I never see an
otherwise normal-appearing bird begin to teeter, bob, dip,
or jerk, without wondering why such mechanism should be
built into an animal. I have always wanted to know why
these apparently useless and nerve-exhausting habits belong
to many species of birds and are as much a characteristic of
that species as their color, the length of their bills, or their
internal structure.

I have heard many people speculate on the cause of these
movements. I suspect that much of the interest is due to the
theory that among people such twitches, involuntary move-

187

1 88 Union Bay

ments, and jerks are usually a sign of weakness or illness and
sometimes very serious illness. Some who casually watch a
bird perform think it is an action peculiar to that individual.
As a matter of fact many kinds of birds make like move-
ments in a greater or less degree, and among the shorebirds
there are some whose life is a continual "dipping."

Four birds with such habits regularly visit the marsh. One
is there nearly all the year, the others may be seen usually
in spring, but are almost certain visitors in August. Chief
among them is the spotted sandpiper, said to be the most
common sandpiper in the United States and certainly the
most common one in the state of Washington, where it can
be seen in season on almost every pond, stream, and lake.
When I faltboat on a western Washington river I flush them
from almost every sand and gravel bar I pass. I watch their
twinkling curved flight as they lead me for a few rods before
they return to the upper end of the bar. Sometimes I have
watched them feed along the stream margin, always active,
almost always moving along as they feed, their small ash-
olive bodies held low, and the large brown spots on their
whitish underparts identifying them instantly. These birds
utter a series of mellow notes as they fly, notes so distinctive
that they are frequently called peet-weets. But most distinc-
tive about them is the almost continual raising and lowering
of the rear end of the bird, a process so noticeable that it has
been given descriptive names such as tip-up, teeter-tail,
teeter-peep, tilt-up. Elliott Coues, in his Key to North Amer-
ican Birds, has described this action more clearly than any
other ornithologist I have read.

As often as the Teeter-tail stops running, the foreparts are lowered a
little, the head is drawn in, the legs are slightly bent, while the tail
bobs up with a jerk, and is drawn down again with the regularity of
clock work— as if the tail were spring-hinged, always liable to fly up,
and requiring constant presence of mind to keep it down decently.
It is amusing to see the male perform during the mating season, swell-
ing with amourousness and self-sufficiency till it looks twice as big as

Teeters, Nods, and Bobs

189

\Vv.|'//

v

-i5 1 - " ' "

usual, facing about this way and that, saluting all points of the com-
pass with its hinder parts— for such is the original way the tip-up has
of conducting his courtship.

I have been told, though I have never seen it, that hardly
are the young born before they assume the habit of teetering,
and when they are merely balls of down they can be seen
running about wagging their tails. I have also been told that
they cease teetering when they hunt and are ready to take
an insect, but I have never noticed it. For me, the spotted
sandpiper will always be the bird with the unstoppable tail.
When they come to the marsh— and I have seen them every
spring and fall for years— I have watched them move from
stranded log to log, to lily pads, never far from shore, always
giving their pleasant peet-weet and always teetering. When
I first saw them I wondered why they were never still. None

190 Union Bay

of the reasons I have since heard have completely satis-
fied me.

Of the other marsh guests which engage in such move-
ments, the killdeer has always seemed the next most con-
spicuous. If the habit is due to nervousness I have never
known a bird which might more properly bob and dip. Its
species name, vociferus, is properly descriptive of its habits.
Its local names are noisy plover, chattering plover, and one
writer has described it briefly as "a very noisy bird." If it was
in the marsh I did not have to see it to know it was there.
Sooner or later I have always heard a kill-dee or a kill-deer
uttered and reuttered in a high pitched tone, usually, fol-
lowed by a trilling deer-deer-deer-deer, repeated time after
time and at an increasing tempo. If a bird can be described
as nervous, it is this talkative, fluttering show-off, which
goes into a tantrum every time its nest is threatened, next
wallows on the ground when the invader is close, and then
flutters, struggles, and cries madly if the aproaching person
gets within two or three yards of the sand or gravel de-
pression in which the four eggs are placed.

I have seen the killdeer many times in August, and as I
watched, it would raise and lower its head while the rear
dropped correspondingly, an abrupt and rough movement
with no apparent useful purpose. It frequently repeated the
act, oftentimes while it was walking up and down a flat and
protesting the approach of the canoe or when standing on a
bit of driftwood. I have always considered the bird a hand-
some creature, and especially when the sun shines on its
conspicuous markings— a general brownish color with two
black bands on the breast, much reddish color on the tail,
a white stripe on the forehead, and a white ring around the
neck. The underparts are white, the bill black, and the legs
grayish-brown. The dignity of its appearance, in the rare
moments when it stands still, vanishes with the resumption
of the convulsive jerk and bob. When the killdeer becomes

Teeters, Nods, and Bobs 191

really demonstrative, it can prove quite annoying, for it usu-
ally sends the nearby birds into the air with a rush of wings
which takes them far from the place where the canoe lies.
Two shorebirds, the greater and the lesser yellow-legs, are
the other bobbing or teetering birds among the marsh vis-
itors. I never fail to see them in August. The two birds differ
little and in the field can be told apart only by size and by
their calls. The lesser yellow-legs approximates the size of
the killdeer while the greater is somewhat smaller than a
curlew. The smaller bird gives a call of two notes, but that
of the other always consists of at least three and occasion-
ally four. The quality is surprisingly mellow and pleasant and
most distinctive. Both the smaller and larger birds which I
saw this year landed on the same flat but on different days.
They lacked the activity of the killdeer and they showed
none of that bird's nervous traits unless the bobbing action
can be so classed. They bobbed, less frequently than the
killdeer, but fairly actively and regularly. I found them wary
and did not try to bring my canoe too close, as I knew that
they would burst into the air and leave. A more distant sta-
tion and the use of the binoculars was always more satis-
factory7. Once, wThen I had beached my canoe and was watch-
ing some long-billed dowitchers, a lesser yellow-legs dropped
down on the little bar and joined them. Evidently it had
been the movement of the approaching canoe and not the
sight of me that had alarmed other yellow-legs, for this bird
ignored me and my motionless craft and fed, sometimes
within a yard or two, for at least half an hour. Then it took
a short tub and settled down to a sleep which did not break
when I pushed out my grounded canoe and left the spot. It
stood there, with half of one orange-yellow leg under water,
the other pulled up into its body feathers, the white of its
tail base showing plainly. It was a handsome and sturdy
bird, which gave no impression of any nervousness that
might provoke its seemingly spasmodic actions.

192 Union Bay

The four shorebirds just described do not include all
species in the state that indulge in such practices. I have seen
hundreds of pipits, sparrow-sized land birds, raise and lower
their tails as they sat on projecting rocks among the wither-
ing alpine plants of Welcome Pass. The birds had assembled
there in late summer to feed on the thousands of grass-
hoppers which had so far escaped freezing weather. In other
parts of the United States certain flycatchers and the oven-
bird, a warbler, display like movements. The willet, a shore-
bird never seen in the marsh but an infrequent visitor along
the ocean beaches of this state, and recently seen near the
Government Locks, exhibits this same habit. Also, in -this
state, the water ouzel, or dipper, bobs and dips along all the
mountain streams. It has not been seen in the marsh, but un-
questionably will be, sooner or later, because it has wintered
at the mouth of the locks less than five miles away. Since it
is the most characteristic and possibly the best known of the
dipping birds it is worth a description.

It is a chunky bird, a trifle smaller than a robin, and of a
family closely allied to that of the robins. It lacks the
webbed, or partially webbed, feet of typical swimmers, but
it is a master of turbulent water. The dipper dives into the
swiftest and roughest parts of mountain streams, crossing
from rock to rock by swimming above or under water, dis-
appearing in eddies, and staying there for an unbelievably
long time. When it is pleased with the food, one dive is fol-
lowed by another. It sings often. Few songs are sweeter.
They are even delivered when the banks are snow covered
and the slower portions of the stream frozen. The white
outer membrane which can be pulled over the eye makes
the face look like a Negro minstrel's. To my mind, the bird
is an exceptionally accomplished stream resident and one
which I never cease to admire. It appears to have the strength
and steadiness of nerve required to take a living from such
unusual and difficult surroundings in every sort of weather.

Teeters, Nods, and Bobs 193

I have seen it busily examining the small expanse of open
water in a mountain lake after the cold November nights had
frozen all but that one small area. The bird dived and re-
appeared as if it were bathing in the summer warmth along
the creeks in the valley below.

These birds are tough little fellows, and I could never
understand why, when one was standing on a rock, its legs
would suddenly drop as if somebody had crept up behind
and hit the joints so that the body sank an inch or so. Then
the legs would straighten and bring the bird back to its nor-
mal position. This action was repeated several times a min-
ute. The only time I have seen the bird when it was not
bobbing was when it slept on a rock in the stream. It is no
seasonable performance connected with display and court-
ship. Males and females, spring and fall, follow this practice.
Among all the teetering and bobbing birds the style of the
dippers seems the most unique, perhaps because it is usually
done in the open against a contrasting background, or be-
cause the dark chunkiness of the bird seems ill-suited to such
contortions.

Why do these birds of various types teeter and bob? I sus-
pect, at this moment, many people might suggest that, al-
though it is interesting to hear of the strange movements of
these birds, there isn't much point in trying to determine
why they make them.

It is a comfortable and relaxing suggestion but one with
which the scientist just can't agree. Science does not progress
by overlooking the things that might be called small and
unimportant. Problems which are ignored because of their
apparent insignificance may prove to be of great moment
once they are explored. A small beginning like the examina-
tion of a sterile area in a culture medium led to the discovery
of penicillin. Only continued inquiry into seemingly unre-
lated details developed the commercial use of rubber. And

194 Union Bay

so scientists persist in evolving theories and in testing their
validity.

Joseph Grinnell, in his Philosophy of Nature, makes these
statements:

The more I reflect upon the observed actions of birds, and of ani-
mals generally, the more I am convinced that there is no such thing
as wasted effort. . . . Really, every movement, every phase of activity,
has its explicit meaning in the bird's program of maintaining existence.

That means that such habits are not accidental or useless but
serve some purpose that may or may not be concealed.

If I accepted this premise I thought that it' should not be
too difficult to discover why our spotted sandpiper went
through its sinuous bobbing motions. The bird's problem is
to maintain existence. Food, shelter, survival, and reproduc-
tion are concerned with this problem. There should be some
simple connection between these motions and the bird's
needs.

I recalled the people I have talked with and the books and
articles I have read. I was quite impressed by the arguments
of a physician, a serious bird student with a great interest in
optics. He said that when a person tries to look beneath the
surface of water he invariably raises and lowers his head
until it reaches an angle which gives him the best view. He
thought it quite likely that shorebirds bobbed and teetered
to obtain the same results. It appeared to be the most reason-
able explanation I had heard, but it hardly explained why
the pipits wagged their tails while hunting grasshoppers on
the heights of Welcome Pass.

I found a statement by Bradford Torrey:

Can it be that such frequenters of shallow water are rendered less
conspicuous by this wave-like up-and-down motion, and have actually
adopted it as a means of defense, just as they and many mere have
taken on a color harmonizing with that of their ordinary surroundings?

Teeters, Nods, and Bobs 19S

Here were two men and two theories: one that the mo-
tions improved vision, another that it provided protection.

I consulted Grinnell's chapter on "The Principle of Rapid
Peering of Birds." He held that the birds which hunted sta-
tionary food continually shifted their position so that the
angle would permit easier location of the prey, just as a man
hunting a golf ball walks back and forth in an effort to find a
spot from which the missing object can be seen. This was a
new theory and one which did not require a water back-
ground.

I remembered an article by Edmund J. Sawyer, an artist,
a close observer of nature, and a man of tremendous field
experience. He dismisses the idea that this constant habit
may be an alarm signal to its kind, or a recognition mark, or
a source of information. He is certain that it is not used to
intimidate an enemy. The habit, he thinks, is an all-season
one and a constant one, and this removes the possibility of
its use for such purposes.

So far his approach is negative but he does not continue
in that vein. He advances the theory that bobbing and tip-
ping are done to increase the possibility of survival. He
points out that it is confined to the smaller birds which need
the advantage of a split second's start over a natural enemy.
He thinks that this continued movement may suggest in-
cipient flight and cause a premature and blundering attack
by predators. He considers that this theory may account for
the existence of the habit in birds which are distantly re-
lated. He is certain that any reasonable explanation of the
various styles of bobbing and tipping must be consistent
with the fact that the birds often have little or nothing else
in common. And he closes with the thought that, to the best
of his knowledge, the birds with this habit are all of the
ground type and especially subject to attack, which would
seem to call for some extra measure of self-protection— such
as a moment's warning would give.

196 Union Bay

That was all the information I could get, although I con-
sulted every index to which I had access. Simple as it may
appear, the subject is not disposed of so easily. Each of the
four men has expressed himself with one of the reservations
"can it be/' "I offer a theory," "It seems to me," "I think"—
the language used by the scientist who feels that he is or may
be on the right track but who wishes it distinctly understood
that the theory cannot yet be considered proved.

The foregoing is a rough summary of what I have learned
about teeters, nods, and bobs. I know that it will not satisfy
you for it has not satisfied me. Nothing that I have observed
furnishes an adequate answer. What I have read has come
close to, but is not completely, an explanation. Every time
I see a spotted sandpiper throwing its weight about I think,
"There are a lot of people who would like to know just why
you do that." The last time I fished on Hyas Lake, a dipper
entered the boat, walked between me and my companion,
and calmly ate salmon eggs which had spilled on the bot-
tom. There was no excitement, no water to peer into, no
alarm over safety, but, nevertheless, the bobbing went on as
decisively as if the bird were nervous, the need for acute
vision imperative, and the area filled with hungry predators.

How the Green Heron Wandered

17

J / ♦ THE CANOEHOUSE MANAGER PUSHED

the canoe into the water. I stepped into it, adjusted the pil-
lows and made myself comfortable.

"Do you think youll have an interesting trip?" he asked.

"You can never tell. Anything may turn up in August," I
replied. "It may be just a humdrum day or it could be like
the time when I first saw one of those fellows." I pointed to a
brown-colored bird which had just dropped into a willow
on the point.

I paddled across the little bay, not cutting in toward the
willow but close enough to look over this hunched-up, long-
billed, and dark-colored creature as it stood on a branch
halfway up the tree and watched me pass.

It is rather a common bird now in the marsh, but I re-
membered the first time that it came and the sensation that
it caused. It was one of those unexpected adventures which
caused me to continue my visits. When I reached the canoe-
house that morning some years ago, I had no idea that I was
to meet a problem which was to prove the most interesting
that marsh wildlife had yet presented. This is what hap-
pened.

197

198 Union Bay

It began with the manager's statement that he had seen a
curious bird, a remark that he frequently made at that time
of year. It was always followed by a discussion of color, size,
and general description, suggestions of possible identity, and
finally reference to the two bird guides which I usually
carried in the car. We were unable to settle the matter that
morning for I had left the guides at home. He said:

"It's smaller than a bittern, but looks a little like one. It
raised a darkish crest when it flew away, and it scolded like
all get out."

If I had been in a marsh in southern California I might
have thought it a least bittern or a green heron, but .the
possibility of those birds being in our city marsh seemed
quite remote. Nobody had heard of a least bittern being resi-
dent in the state of Washington. There was one subspecies of
the green heron on the Pacific Coast which might have been
considered as a possibility. It had been discovered in south-
ern California, was regarded as a desert form, and although
it had been reported in our state in the past, the reports
were not considered entirely reliable, and only one sight
record of the bird north of the Columbia River had been
accepted. This location was over a hundred miles south of
Seattle.

The unknown visitor promised to be of great interest.
The manager and I discussed it in every detail. For three
mornings it had appeared on the float and had expertly
breakfasted on tadpoles. It was the size of a small chicken
but slimmer in build and its vellow-orreen legs made it look
taller. Its bill was sharp and strongly built and was estimated
by the manager to be three inches long. The bird's pose was
something like that of a great blue heron, with its neck out-
stretched when hunting, but with bodv compressed and neck
drawn in when at ease, in which position it appeared little
more than half its height when the neck was extended. Its
flight was weak and dangling.

How the Green Heron Wandered

199

I had listened carefully to these descriptions. I was con-
vinced that he had made a great find. I knew that there was
no mistake for his statements were carefully made. I won-
dered if I would have a chance to observe the bird. At home
that night I put three well-illustrated bird books into the car.

The manager was on hand when I arrived the next morn-
ing. We walked to the float. I could see how the heron would
be attracted, for hundreds of fat bullfrog tadpoles swam to
the surface and pushed their bodies partly out of water so
that the surface looked as if the rounded ends of innumera-
ble broomsticks were being projected into the air. There
could be no finer hunting. But the bird was not there. We
waited on a bench in the background for more than an hour
but it did not come.

I decided that there was one thing that we could do while
we were waiting— that was to check the bird guides. I made

200 Union Bay

notes from the float while he looked over the three books.
I did not want to make any suggestions that might influence
his findings. He possessed the carefulness of an observer
trained on the farm and by years of hunting. He went
through the illustrations in each book with the same care
with which he would have made observations in the field.
When he finished he opened each book at the page he had
marked. The bird he pointed to was the Anthony green
heron, a western subspecies of the green lieron.

I must confess that my failure to have seen the bird was a
tremendous disappointment. There could have been no
greater addition to my list of marsh visitors. The manager,
whose apartment overlooked the float, had never seen the
bird before. It might be that he would never see it again.
And I had missed it completely. I had not caught even a
distant glimpse of this stranger. I launched the canoe with
the feeling that luck was a bit against me, but I could not
remain depressed for long in such weather. One of my
friends would have called it a Holland day, for the sun and
the distant view were softened by the slightest suggestion of
mist, the roughened surface of the water flashed its move-
ments, and great cumulus clouds hung in the east. The
breeze was fresh enough to make paddling comfortable. I
cruised about the handsome blooms of the water lilies, en-
tered some inlets to hunt for green-winged teal, and moved
casually and comfortably wTherever my fancy took me. But
I had not forgotten the visitor; every rising bird attracted
my attention. I turned quickly to get a view of it, and if at
first I could not see it, I followed the sound of its wings until
identification was possible. But no green heron rose and
pursued its loose flight. Every cove I entered confirmed my
belief that it had gone. I knew that rare visitors were usu-
ally storm-driven and that their stop was often for a day
or only part of a day. This one had been here for three days
—what reason for it to remain any longer?

How the Green Heron Wandered 201

Some newly arrived red-backed sandpipers flushed and
burst through a flock of young swallows which flew clumsily
about. The swallows were driven to the canal bank and I
watched them trying to balance themselves on swaying bul-
rushes. I had begun to feel quite proud of my ability to for-
get my disappointment of the morning. I had been slow in
realizing that happiness in the field could only be learned
by emphasizing the importance of little things, and by be-
lieving, like the tailor in Sartor Resartus, that those who do
not expect too much will be made happy by the small things
that come their way.

Perhaps my philosophic acceptance had its own reward,
for later in the morning and after I had completely dismissed
the thought of the visitor a brown, medium-sized bird raised
its blackish crest as it flew out of a willow on the edge of
the cattails. It uttered a frequently repeated skee-ow, and
flew slowly along the bank with its yellowish-green legs
dangling. I fairly caught my breath. I think I gazed at it as
a prairie boy might watch his first steamship. For there was
my bird, the green heron. As usual, the manager had been
correct: he had realized immediately that the bird was a
stranger, and had noted every peculiarity so that he could
describe it carefully.

A green heron is not a bird which would excite an East-
erner, who lives where it is plentiful. It would be as unre-
markable as a magpie in an eastern Washington coulee, but
in our area it has the rarity that a -magpie would have in
New England. I had looked about with an added sense of
the importance of the marsh— to think that so small an area
in so crowded a location could harbor such a rare and inter-
esting bird.

As the canoe advanced, the bird had watched from a low
willow, each foot gripping a branch, neck outstretched, and
eyes apparently glaring at me. I reached for my camera but
before I could adjust it, the bird made a movement which I

202 Union Bay

later found was quite characteristic. It dropped a couple of
feet lower so that its position against the sky was lost and
its body made only a rough outline among the branches. I
waited for it to climb again but without success. I soon
learned that these downward retreats were never reversed
by a short climb, but were usually terminated by flight.

I recalled some of the names by which the eastern relative
was known: shitepoke, little quak, and fly-up-the-creek, the
last of which I thought particularly applicable to this west-
ern relative, for I followed it as it flew from willow to willow,
from top branches to lower ones, and then to other trees
where the bird repeated its performance. I succeeded in get-
ting a couple of short movie shots which I hoped might
establish its identity, but I knew the distances were too great
to be satisfactory. Then the bird flew across the marsh and
disappeared for the rest of the day.

That had been my first encounter with the green heron
in the Pacific Northwest. I hoped that it would not be my
last. On my way home I thought much about the bird and of
the probable reasons that had brought it here. I knew that
the public in general regards all birds as free to wander
wherever wind and food and fancy take them. But the con-
trary is true: birds live within definite boundaries, more
extensive for some than for others, but all subject to decided
limitations. They do not often make a practice of getting out
of their range, although annually there are exceptions to the
rule. Herons of various kinds occasionally indulge in pseudo-
migrations, which are not migrations involving regular jour-
neys between their winter and breeding territories, but are
simply postbreeding wanderings which follow no definite
course. Had such a pseudomigration led this bird to the
marsh? If so, where had the summer nesting taken place,
and how far had this stranger come in its wandering? I spent
the evening in an examination of the available records.

I learned that there were two races of the green heron on

How the Green Heron Wandered 203

the Pacific Coast. One of them, the Frazar green heron, was
restricted to the peninsula of Lower California and could be
eliminated. The other, the Anthony green heron, had been
found in 1895 by an ornithologist named Mearns and de-
scribed by him from specimens taken in the Colorado Valley
near the Mexican boundary. It was a lighter-colored bird
than its eastern relative, and at first was supposed to occur
only in the arid regions of California and the Southwest.
There it breeds in trees along the irrigation ditches and
streams. I found that, by 1926, the range of this supposed
specialist in arid localities had been extended as far north
as Fort Klamath in the southern part of Oregon, and that
one person had reported the bird to be a "not common resi-
dent" in Washington. The fact that the best of the north-
western ornithologists— and there were many at that time-
made no report of the occurrence of this bird in Washington
until many years after makes this record doubtful.

Although no green heron had been reported as far north
as Seattle, I made no attempt to publicize this extension of
range. It would not have been accepted as a scientific record,
for there is an unwritten rule that such records should be
substantiated by the actual skin of the bird. This is probably
sound from the viewpoint of science. It aids greatly in keep-
ing the records free from errors and frauds due to ignorance
or evil intention, although it would not prevent an unscrupu-
lous person from collecting skins in one district and then
representing them as taken in another. I quite agreed with
those who held that the indiscriminate acceptance of sight
records could be responsible for many errors. Had I wished
to claim a record I could easily have shot the visitor, but I
did not think that the matter of proving range extension was
of enough importance to justify killing the bird that had set
up the record. Then I thought of testing the value of color
photographs in the identification of species. Would it be
satisfactory? I decided to find out.

204 Union Bay

When the manager reported that the bird came around
almost every morning, I made a series of early visits. After
the third trip I learned that it spent the night in a little
marginal pond south of the canoehouse. Then I had only to
flush it, to watch where it landed, and to try to photograph it
in the tree. If disturbed again, it would fly to another pond
just north of the canoehouse, and if left alone would spend
most of the day there. A small blind at this spot enabled me
to take some pictures, and just after that, in the first week
of September, the bird disappeared.

The statement that the green heron had been a fortnight
guest of the local marsh was not received with much en-
thusiasm by scientific friends who had heard of it. I was not
surprised. The customary introduction to such a statement
is something like this:

"Here's a skin I thought you might like to see. It may be
something new in the territory."

Then in due course the skin would be examined, com-
pared, and carefully measured, and the verdict would be given.

In this particular case, after mentioning a possible new
record, I was told each time that it would be interesting to
see the skin. Imagine the shocked attitude of the listener
when I replied that the bird had not been collected. I was
reminded immediately that of course the skin was required
for proof. It was not said with temper or malice, but politely,
and only as a reminder that there were rules which must be
observed. The fact that twenty persons had now' seen the
bird was not sufficient evidence: who could be certain that
the twenty had not been mistaken? The skin of the bird must
be available for examination by any who wished to satisfy
themselves.

It is the privilege of all to think that even a good rule may
be carried too far. A green heron within ten or fifteen yards
could be mistaken for nothing else by any observer of birds.
I asked myself if it were necessary to collect the skin of a

How the Green Heron Wandered 205

zebra in order to be sure that it was a zebra, or the hide of
an elephant to prove that it was an elephant. When the
processed pictures were returned I mounted the best and
forwarded them to the American Museum of Natural History
in New York, with the request that they identify the bird.
The short note mentioned only the place where the pictures
were taken. The reply stated that the bird was a green heron.
The answer went as far as I had hoped and expected. I knew
that the matter of subspecies could be determined only in
the laboratory.

The letter satisfied me that proper photographs in color
were of considerable value in identification. The report of
the presence of the green heron was accepted unquestion-
ably, especially when two records, made earlier, were pub-
lished. Stanley G. Jewett, a nationally known expert, had
seen a green heron in the southwestern portion of the state,
and Hubert C. Hall had taken an Anthony green heron in
Pacific County, Washington, on the day before the manager
had told me of the arrival of the bird in our marsh. So every-
body was satisfied: the precisionists had a skin to prove that
its former occupant had really flown into the state, the re-
port of the museum established the fact that our bird was a
green heron, and more than that the record of the almost
simultaneous appearance of these three birds suggested that
significant changes might be taking place.

From a news standpoint, had the matter ended there it
would have furnished only an item which might compare in
importance to city news, such as the visit of the crown prince
of Norway, an Australian tennis champion, or some famous
explorer or statesman. But my friends and I were in an ex-
cellent position to watch the arrival and departure of marsh
guests and to witness the remarkable change in the status
of the green heron in our territory.

We did not, as the thorough Germans might have done,
form a society for the observance of green herons, but we

206 Union Bay

did ask all local bird observers to keep an eye out for the
strangers. The manager, always cooperative, mentioned the
matter to many canoeists who he thought were good ob-
servers: some were familiar with the eastern bird. But the
fall of the year and the next spring passed without any fur-
ther sight of our avian problem. It was not until April of the
next year that the manager called to tell me that a green
heron was again fishing from the float. We saw this solitary
bird in various locations close to the canoehouse, always
silent, morose appearing, and sluggish except when it drove
its bill at great speed to capture a passing tadpole. It left
during the first week in September.

It has been my custom to take notes regularly in the marsh.
If I now refer in some detail to the dates of the coming and
going of the green heron, it is because I soon learned that
these visits represented much more than the casual roving
of one individual. When the green heron appeared for the
third succeeding year and remained from the middle of July
until the first of November, it looked as if some sort of rough
pattern was emerging and that its visits were not acci-
dental. Perhaps it had wandered from south of the Columbia
River where herons were known to nest. Possibly the bird
was stopping on its return migration from farther north
nesting places. Close observation might give some more in-
formation which would help to determine whether the green
heron, because of population pressure, drainage ,of former
breeding grounds, or for some other reason, was reaching
out into territory far removed from its original habitat.

I was convinced that the marsh was an ideal place for
such observation. The manager lived in the canoehouse and
left the area only for short periods. He saw the marsh early
in the day and late in the evening. He was equipped with
powerful binoculars. Canoehouse Bay, with its abundance of
tadpoles, small frogs, and other food, was the best feeding
place in the marsh. I patrolled the area one or more times

How the Green Heron Wandered 207

a week. I think it safe to say that no green heron entered the
bay without being observed by the manager or myself.

The scanty information so far collected by us had upset
the previously recorded time schedules of the bird. It had
been thought that the green heron's fall migration from
Oregon, the northern limit of its range, began early, the
latest date being September 10. But this bird had been seen
as late as November 4, two hundred miles north of Oregon
and far beyond its "normal" range. It meant a decided revi-
sion in the status of the green heron in the Pacific Northwest.

Any thought of a regular pattern in the marsh visits was
dispelled by the deviation in the next year. A bird arrived
quite in accordance with the previous schedules, but its de-
parture was decidedly out of line. I saw it through Septem-
ber, in October, and during the Thanksgiving and Christmas
holidays. What kind of a creature was this? Why should a
bird which had specialized on living in the blistering heat of
southwestern river swamp bottoms remain in the north to
endure the drip of fall and early winter? On each of my trips
I expected to find that it had gone, but it was there in Jan-
uary when I went to check it after a severe snowstorm. It
stood under the shelter of an arch made by lodged cattails
and looked as if it had never lived anywhere else. My last
sight of it was on February 11. To those who might think
that this bird may have been the eastern heron which is
known to winter occasionally in the northeast, I will say that
no eastern green herons have ever been taken in this state;
on the contrary, every green heron which has been examined
has proved to be the Anthony. The American Ornithologists'
Union check list says of this bird: "Breeds or summers from
Portland, Oregon, to Lower California, Southern Arizona,
and Northern Sonora, Mexico. Winters from Southern Cali-
fornia, to Southern Mexico and Central Costa Rica/'

I found these conditions difficult to explain. I knew that
many kinds of birds did wander but more of them did not.

208 Union Bay

It was their habit to return to the same territory, to the same
field or woodlot, and often to the same part of a field or the
identical tree which they had previously occupied. The de-
parture and arrival of such birds ordinarily were quite reg-
ular. This decided upset puzzled me.

In late August another green heron arrived. I speculated
as to whether it would leave on schedule. I missed it on two
visits and noted its departure in my records. But I was forced
to withdraw the entry. This bird was either the pioneer of
the year before or another equally hardy bird, for it re-
mained through a moderately hard winter and left in Feb-
ruary just before the arrival of the tree swallows. I would
have given much to learn its destination, its direction, and
its distance.

I knew no rules which would enable me to forecast the
schedule of this species. For three years it had left moder-
ately early in the fall; for two years it had remained in the
marsh all winter. I had never seen such variation and won-
dered whether its marsh stays would always be so uncertain.
But it never wintered again. For the next four years the
green heron appeared in April or May and then disappeared
after a short visit. It reappeared in the period between mid-
dle July and September, and left before November 1. This
schedule may prove to be its natural one.

By this time the long legs and dangling flight, ahead of the
canoe, together with its harsh skee-ow, had been noticed by
canoeists and in season they began to report the presence of
two or three birds in the marsh. One man stated that he had
seen five, but I thought that birds might have recrossed his
path and been counted twice. Several other enthusiasts co-
operated with inspections and reports. One of them, a stu-
dent, reported that she had seen a young heron in the neigh-
borhood. We decided to watch carefully for nesting birds
the next season.

The combined observations gave us a fairly good idea of

How the Green Heron Wandered 209

the situation in the Puget Sound area. I had now seen green
herons while faltboating on both the Snoqualmie and Sam-
mamish rivers. A friend of mine had collected a specimen
fifty miles north of Seattle. These, together with those taken
near Tacoma, and the additional ones seen in the marsh in-
dicated that there were now many more birds in the state
than had been realized. One of the birds taken near Tacoma
proved to be in breeding condition when dissected. This
justified the opinion that the birds were nesting somewhere
nearby. We could now believe that the appearance of these
birds was not due to pseudomigration, but was a part of a
definite movement into Washington. This belief was strength-
ened by the presence in the swamp of twelve birds in one
day.

The next spring four green herons appeared early in the
marsh. We saw them through May and June but could not
locate a nest. Then on June 18, while paddling through a
canal, I saw two strange birds sitting side by side on a willow
branch, their bodies silhouetted against the sky, and the
light shining through their crowns like a halo. I had not
found the nest, but here were two green herons, so young
that it was certain that they had been born in the marsh.
Their tails were stubby, their wing feathers short, their bills
light-colored, their breasts striped with tan on either side.
The identification was easy because my six-power glasses
brought out every detail. They half fell, half climbed, down
from the branches and disappeared. I returned now and
then for two hours, each time seeing them back on a branch
and each time watching them slip down again. And through-
out the week I saw them in almost the same place.

It had been just a few days less than ten years since the
canoehouse manager had directed my attention to the first
green heron in the marsh. My friends and I had watched its
invasion of the territory, had heard of its increase in other
locations in the state, and had welcomed its visits to our

210 Union Bay

local marsh at strangely different times and under greatly
varying conditions. We had watched continually from the
vantage point of a small city area, and had been rewarded
by witnessing an unusual and continuous demonstration of
the outward thrust of a species which now promises to be a
regular resident of the state.

.V

Marsh Symphony

I V* THERE ARE, OF COURSE, GREAT

physical differences between a marsh and other natural fea-
tures such as seashores and mountains. There is also a de-
cided contrast in what might be called the tempo and the
appeal of the areas. I had often thought of it, but, strangely
enough, it was not until a morning in August, when I wit-
nessed the episode of the venturesome house dog, that I
concerned myself seriously with the matter.

The dog was a Boston bull, a member of the family of one
of the professors, with all the pamperings and privileges
connected therewith. It possessed the rather irritable com-
bination of cocksureness, faith in the goodness of human na-
ture, and the faculty of taking everything for granted, that
invariably marks the well-treated and young city dog. It
came to the marsh with its master and looked over the place
while the professor talked with the manager. It sniffed and
approved the various posts, walked around the canoes, ig-
nored the two country-wise spaniels of the manager, and
then turned its attention to the float.

Apparently the dog had been accustomed only to clear
and weedless conditions, and its experience had not included

211

212 Union Bay

water so thickly covered with floating growth that it looked
as solid as the path over which it had just daintily romped.
Accordingly, when a cottonwood leaf danced lightly upon
this most deceptive surface, the dog moved quickly to in-
spect the moving object. The leap was just the proper dis-
tance. Had the surface been firm the animal would have
grasped the leaf as it landed. I had never seen a dog before
that I could swear was surprised, but when its head appeared
above the surface with green strands decorating its forehead
and with its ears and nostrils full of duckweed, it wore an
expression which any movie director would have accepted
as a perfect interpretation of astonishment/ Many square
feet of this tiny plant growth had to be pushed aside by the
dog as it swam to the landing. There it retired to a corner
of the float and scratched and shook and licked itself into
some sort of order while the country dogs regarded the per-
formance of their high-toned city visitor with so much in-
difference that they did not move a foot or utter a bark.

The impression made by this incident was partly due to
the fact that it showed me how much more a country dog
knew than a city-bred animal. Mike and Bill had their daily
chores to do and they did them well. They hated rats and
kept them away by regular patrols of the area. They accepted
strange human visitors only if they obeyed the rules of the
place. They did not allow prowlers near the canoehouse and
its lockers. They saw that no strange dogs molested any
water birds which were obviously a part of the canoehouse
surroundings. All of these things were done surely, conscien-
tiously, and without fuss. Between times they looked and
learned until they could differentiate between the regular
visitors and casuals as certainly as if they had worn a dis-
tinctive costume. When I approached, they uttered a couple
of short barks, a signal which the manager said indicated
always the coming of a friend. When I got nearer they ad-
vanced for a friendly pat and welcome and then returned

Marsh Symphony

213

f/>

mmmm^^

to their other duties. As for the town dog, its home life had
been such that it had no difficulties to meet, no schedule to
follow, no contact with roughness or unkindness, and con-
sequently no ability to face properly anything outside the
petty routine of its life.

The other impression concerned the duckweed which had
so upset the dignity of the professorial pooch. A single duck-
weed plant is small enough to float comfortably in a thimble-
ful of water. And yet the sheet into which the dog had glee-
fully jumped was as large as a city block. So closely were the
plants spaced that it was the habit of the ducks, which es-
teem them highly, to oscillate their partly opened bills and
proceed through the spread at half speed, all the time "in-
haling" the stuff, with a noise loud enough to remind me of
Boy Scouts absorbing soup after a hard day in the field.
There must have been many hundreds of thousands of those
tiny bits of vegetation in each small patch. There were com-
paratively few species of plants in the marsh, but the con-
centration of duckweed and of several other species was
great enough to be one of the characteristics of the area.

This impression caused me to consider the distinguishing

214 Union Bay

traits of seashore and mountain, other localities of which I
am especially fond. The sea provides unlimited vision. The
mountain views, though massive, may be considered more
restrictive, but the third dimension of depth more than com-
pensates. Both constantly emphasize the forces of nature:
the sea by the strength of the gales and the power of the
pounding waves, the mountains by the violent thunderstorms,
the rush of the streams, the onslaught of avalanches, and the
constant working of erosive action. Noise is always present
in both situations. Even in calm weather the sea never fails
to break with heavy impact on the scree of the beach, and
when fully aroused its sounds dominate miles of shore. The
rush of the cataracts, the wind in the trees, the movement
of the glaciers all vary the noises of the mountain, but the
result is not more insistent than that of the sea. Each has
its dramatic connotation: the sea with fleets, wrecks, explora-
tions, piracy, history, and adventure; the mountains with
grandeur, tragedy, daring, heroism, skill.

The marsh did not fare well in comparison with these
heroic aspects. There was nothing three-dimensional about
it. If I looked in any direction my vision was soon out of the
cattails and into the surrounding business or residence dis-
tricts. There were lovely views from some points, but they
were not a part of the marsh itself. There were no great
storms or natural manifestations. The canoehouse manager
sometimes refused canoes to novices on blustery days, but
I went out regardless of wind or rain and was troubled
neither by storm nor by the swells of canal traffic. There
were no ominous warnings of great forces to be released, no
preliminary slipping of snow on steep slopes, no sighing of
wind which warned the climber to make for shelter. Prac-
tically all the marsh noises came from the rustle of trees and
smaller growth, or from the birds and mammals which moved
about in the locality. There were, to be sure, the sounds of
practicing crews and passing boats in the ship canal, and

Marsh Symphony 215

many toots and rattles which came from the neighboring
activities of man and his machines, but these were incidental
to, and not actually a part of, the area. The marsh lacked
the majesty of view, the presence of rampant elements, and
the roar of their conflict. But its allure was not less than that
of the seashore and the mountains. What was there about
the marsh to call me back week after week and year after
year? I tried to sum it up.

There was the coming and going of the wildlife and its
contact with the neighboring human community, which es-
sentially is the theme of this book. There was the oppor-
tunity to visit the place frequently, to watch its residents
continually, and to get a connected picture of its life and
conduct. This, I thought, was not so easy for the man who
wished to study the high mountains or seashore. Such loca-
tions were many hours away from the city, while the marsh
could be reached from my home in four or five minutes. The
size and dignity of the larger areas were not to be underesti-
mated, but the lack of space by no means detracted from my
interest in the marsh. If I missed the unlimited view, I came
closer in contact with the marsh community. In the moun-
tains I knew canyons, lakes, and glaciers, all magnificently
impersonal; in the marsh I knew nests and mallard broods
and the various preferences of the marsh guests. At the place
where I visited the seashore, I watched the surf pile into the
creek entrance and batter it with the mass of logs which ac-
companied the onrush; in the marsh I stopped at the log
boom and watched the crows harry a Peale falcon which
soon abandoned its original intention to perch on one of the
big logs and rest peaceably.

If one place was greater in scope, the other was more vital
in its nearness and appeal to the understanding. The noises
of the mountain and sea were caused usually by inanimate
things; the marsh noises were nearly always those of living
creatures, occasionally broken by wind in the undergrowth

216 Union Bay

or by small waves. In the proper season I could stop pad-
dling almost any time and locate half a dozen birds by their
sounds— some from the air, others in the low growth or in the
water. The marsh residents scarcely ever left it except to
migrate. If I startled them into flight they went only a short
distance and settled down. I seldom failed to spot where
they landed and to find them again if I were really interested.

The marsh, then, is an intimate place. There would be
little appeal for those who admire the big scene, great move-
ments, and constant excitement. But it is the absence of these
things that provides much of the marsh charm. Of what
value are two or three hours to the city dweller whose only
interest is the mountain or the seashore? Even week ends
are too short for trips to such places. But this marsh, so close
to my home, fills my two- or three-hour spare periods with
relaxation and enjoyment. Indeed, the two-hour rental is the
standard time at the canoehouse. Few of the paddlers stay
out much longer, partly because of the expense, and partly
because they have covered much of the area, and the urge
to exercise has been largely satisfied. In two hours I can
usually check the birds and the places which I wish to ex-
amine. Or I can drift and sunbathe and devote the time en-
tirely to rest. I never have to lean into the wind and wonder
whether I have enough time to beat the tide around the
points. I am not forced to put all my effort and determina-
tion into the ascending of the steep rock gully that leads to
the summit of the mountain. I never have to make the de-
scent and return to the valley below, full of enthusiasm for
the perfect view and the wonderful trip but equally full of
foreboding for the condition of my muscles on the following
day.

Fortunate is the man who does not have to choose be-
tween the seashore, the mountains, and the marsh. There is
no reason why he should not visit them all as his mood di-
rects. But for the man who has little time and perhaps less

Marsh Stjmphony 217

money there is much that the marsh can do. It can say: here
are my wild people and the home in which I have put them.
Study them, or casually watch them; pry into their habits,
their coming and going, their birth and their dying. Visit
them regularly, if only for short times. See how their meth-
ods and program conform to the nooks and corners in which
they live and hunt their food. They nest as soon as, but not
before, the proper protective growth conceals the nesting
area. The young appear when the food supply suitable for
them is most easily obtained. The industry, the loyalty to
family, the dexterity of the nest building which, in many
cases, is being done for the first time, will surprise you. You
will be perplexed by the apparent lack of intelligence which
leads them into trouble and the inability with which they
meet the situation. You will soon know that, though you are
the equivalent of a small-town reporter, a sympathetic and
discerning examination of the things you see will be a con-
stant source of knowledge and pleasure.

To those who think that the marsh is flat and formless and
without beauty I say that such a thought can be held only
by a person not acquainted with it. The marsh is without the
vastness and variety of design which marks the mountain
and seashore, but beauty cannot be measured in acreage or
by complexity. The simple vase and the single rose may at-
tract more admiration and attention than the large and im-
posing canvas.

It is true that there are not a great many varieties of vege-
tation to work with in the marsh. In my trips I see few kinds
of trees— willows, alders, and cottonwoods. Many small
herbaceous plants find a footing. Some of them, such as the
mimulus with its yellow monkey-face, the small blue forget-
me-nots, yellow mustards, and water celery, are so scattered
as to be but tiny decorations on the general design. It is the
cattail, the giant bulrush, and the loosestrife which make up

218 Union Bay

probably more than ninety per cent of the marsh production.
The beauty of the area is due largely to these three plants.

One of the local professors told me of talking with two of
his colleagues while they were gazing at the marsh from
one of the campus windows. During their conversation he
remarked that he had not realized the beauty of that flat and
drab-appearing area until he had seen some color movies
which had been taken there. Then he was amazed at the
loveliness of line, of color, and arrangement.

I think he well described the type of beauty of the marsh.
As in other marsh characteristics, understanding comes only
with an intimate knowledge of the place. On this day in
early August when I paddled slowly along, I looked at a soft,
gently waving expanse of green, broken only here and there
by the varying greens of cottonwoods, willows, and alders,
by still other shades of green of the cattails, and by the large
and irregular purple patches of the loosestrife flowers. This
is the typical pattern of this time in summer, but it is not as
it was six weeks ago and it is different from what it will be
at the end of another six weeks.

The general pattern will be little changed but the detail of
design will be constantly shifting. The pattern will continue
to be one of uniform colors and blocks. There is power in the
simplicity of solid color massing which has been widely ex-
ploited in the past half century. I observe the result in the
planting in the public parks, in homes where gardens have
been laid out by modern landscape specialists, in the cos-
tuming of the theater and the planning of its scenery. The
marsh exemplifies this tendency. In only one other place
have I seen much massing of color— in the mountain hem-
lock forests. But there I notice little contrast through the
year, while in the marsh the vegetation changes with such
regularity that the advance of the year can be judged by the
progression of color.

Three plants— the cattail, loosestrife, and bulrush— produce

Marsh Symphony 219

the constant shifts in the marsh color design. The method is
really simple: each plant has its distinctive annual cycle, its
own structural form, and its own response to the effects of
maturity. Each occupies certain definite spots in the area.
When the effects produced by each of these three massed
plants are combined, they establish the general design of the
marsh and are responsible for its pleasing colors and textures.
It is in effect a battle of living colors and textures. The
progress is the same each year and can be illustrated by con-
sidering one of the three plants. Each spring I see the choco-
late-brown framework of last year's loosestrife standing erect
and staunch enough so that it becomes the principal frame-
work of the tule wren's nest. The whole marsh pattern then
is one of various shades of dull browns. As the new growth
begins, it is supported by the stems of the old plants through
which it pushes. I watch the plants grow rapidly, their stems
branching and growing rapidly each day, the whole plant
becoming yellow-green as the leaves open, and its living
color gradually submerging the dead tones of the previous
season. Eventually the plants attain their full size and crowd
the surrounding vegetation. I await the budding in late June,
and in early July the whole marsh commences to fill with
great blotches of color. Each foot-long spike is crowded with
delicate flowers more often of a red or deep rose rather than
a purple. In its fullest period the bloom often overshadows
the greens. Wherever I paddle I see color— at the other end
of the marsh, in the middle distance, and on the bank by my
side. The heads, particularly in exposed places, freely show
variation in shape and for some reason are often irregular so
that they hang stiffly or follow a curving line as if some per-
son had bent them deliberately. In places where the tops of
the plants have sagged toward the water, the blooms make
a waist-high band of solid color. The show remains at its
best for perhaps three weeks. This is the time when I see the
few marsh turtles enjoying the hot sun, and when the birds

220 Union Bay

have almost ceased singing. The blackberry bushes promise
a big crop, for they are full of small green fruit and also
carry many blooms. The underwater growth thickens daily.
Canoeists grumble over the difficulty of pushing their way
through the vegetation which clogs the quieter stretches.
The blooming is nearly over by the middle of August. Soon
after, the windblown petals cease to purple the channels.
The seeds of the loosestrife set, gradually the spikes become
stiff and nubby, and the leaves begin to acquire the reddish-
brown of early fall. From then on each plant loses its grace-
ful pliancy and assumes a stiffness which it carries through
winter.

The progress of the cattails and the bulrushes is similar to
that of the loosestrife. They emerge at slightly different pe-
riods, each fighting its own battle between the greens and
browns, with approximately the same result.

The water-lilies, the yellow pond lilies, the beggar's-ticks,
the duckweed, and many other small plants add much to the
detail of decoration but little to the general effect. The cat-
tails, the loosestrife, and the bulrushes arrange the pattern.

On this August day I know that the bloom will soon go;
the now-green area will be replaced by the changing colors
of the maturing plants. The texture will change too as the

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Marsh Symphony 221

plants slump and their leaves wither. The constant soft-
swaying movement so typical of cattail areas in the summer
breeze will cease and only the stiffness of maturity will re-
main.

The effect of all this convinces me that the program of
marsh decoration may be compared to that type of music
which emphasizes one specific strain which it plays and re-
plays with endless variations. The theme of the marsh is the
gradual change from the browns of winter to the greens of
summer and again to the brown of winter. The transitions
are simple but they are enriched from end to end: in color by
the combination of the countless shades which the plants
assume in their annual cycle; and in texture by the altera-
tions in their physical structure as they thrust their new
growth through the ground, rise to maturity, and then slip
into the decay of late fall.

Quintet

79.

I TURNED MY CANOE TOWARD THE

float just as the colored lights on the district advertising signs
began to flash. I was tired but well pleased with a trip that
had been full of fruitful experience, and delightfully com-
fortable as well. I had left home after breakfast and had
found the marsh free of the early morning fog that fre-
quently invaded it in late September. The air had been clear
all day. In the morning the Cascades were flat and dark but
the climbing sun illuminated the few valleys and ridges
which I could see in the Olympics; in the afternoon condi-
tions reversed so that it was the' Cascades that stood bright
and warm in the sunshine while the shadows darkened the
flanks of the Olympics. Coolness marked the early morning,
a light breeze followed until the sun passed the zenith and
brought an afternoon full of warmth and ease.

I had planned to search, not for mammals, but for those
slow and elusive marsh birds known as rails. They seemed to
lose some of their characteristic shyness in fall, and I wanted
to check them over and confirm my belief that a bird that
I had seen the year before, and which I thought was too big
to be either a sora or Virginia rail, might prove to be a clap-

222

224 Union Bay

per rail, a bird which had never been recorded from the
marsh. I carefully followed the margins where I had previ-
ously seen rails— tangles of cattails and rushes with thin open
spaces between them, and wet muddy ground on which the
birds could walk. The sora— brown, compact, and with a
short bill which gave it the popular name of chicken rail-
stood on a log and kindly allowed me the opportunity to
watch it preen, a rather elaborate proceeding which required
at least twenty minutes. The Virginia rail clattered loudly
from the rushes and two or three times slipped back and
forth from one point to the other in the foreground. It was
a surprisingly good day for rails, but although I carefully
watched every movement in the vegetation no out-size bird
appeared. Twice I covered the marsh without success. I ate
my lunch at the very spot where the bird had flashed by me
the year before. All I saw was a song sparrow as it slipped
among the cattails. Even though I failed to find a clapper rail
I was more than compensated in other respects. Something
about the day, perhaps its early crispness, or the odor of the
dew-covered vegetation as the sun struck it, or the harsh
freshness of the still and black water, or possibly just a strong
craving for food, seemed to stimulate the marsh mammals
and to bring them into the open.

It was a good day for mammals, Not that I was ever sur-
prised when I saw them. I had seen them often before: the
beaver a few times a month, the muskrat perhaps every other
trip, the weasel at rare intervals, the otter a few times a year,
and the mink irregularly and in no particular season. But
they were not common and the odds were tremendously
against meeting many of them in a twenty-four-hour stretch.
This day proved most rewarding so that when I went home
I felt like a man who had held four aces at an opportune time
in draw poker or like the golfer who had at last made a hole-
in-one.

During the day I thought much about these mammals

Quintet 225

which were common to the marsh. This quintet— otter, mink,
muskrat, weasel, and beaver— are all competitors to a degree.
They have fields of activities, each of which might be repre-
sented by segments of the area of a circle. If these circles
were laid down so that spaces representing similar activities
would intersect, it would be found that each animal would
have areas in common with those of others. It would also
have space which did not conflict with the other four. For
example, I am sure that the members of the quintet, except
for the beaver, would and did include frogs in their diet.
Perhaps all ate some vegetation, although there would be a
vast difference in the proportion consumed by muskrat and
weasel. Fish were of prime importance only for the otter
and mink, cattails and rushes interested the muskrat and
beaver, while the only considerable user of tree products was
the beaver.

As I made my rounds I was particularly struck by these
differences. My slow and quiet paddling brought me almost
up to a muskrat, known by almost everybody as a semiaqua-
tic mammal, three or four times as large as a rat, but thickset,
and with a tail laterally compressed to facilitate swimming.
It was busy in a way common to no others of the quintet.
It stood, surrounded by water, on a little platform of cattails.
Much feeding had been done in the vicinity, for the cattails
had been cut close to their bases. From its raised dais the
muskrat could watch and move quickly into the water where
its speed and skill could be used to the greatest advantage.
It needs its skill for it has many enemies and, without ques-
tion, only the number and size of its litters have enabled it
to withstand the heavy pressure of predation. The area is
trapped every year, and filling constantly decreases its size.
Hawks, owls, and mink regard muskrats highly.

Muskrats are especially vulnerable when the water is low
for they have neither speed for flight nor ability in combat.
Inasmuch as they are often a nuisance to cultivated places

226 Union Bay

they face the additional danger of trapping by owners who
wish to protect their property.

I found the muskrats well scattered over the marsh. They
live in two ways: in bank burrows reached by underwater
passages, and in above-ground houses somewhat similar in
appearance to beaver lodges but much smaller and built of
lighter material. Formerly I saw a dozen of these houses
around the marsh, but for some reason few are now built. I
do not think that it indicates a decided drop in population,
but probably is due to some cause such as a change in the
water level or the greater protection offered by a bank bur-
row. These burrows cannot be reached from above and there-
fore must provide better protection from dogs or other mam-
mals. The muskrat has never appeared to me as fast a swimmer
as a mink. This may be due to the fact that, as a predator, the
mink has need of greater speed and strength and has there-
fore developed in that direction.

I passed three muskrats at different times of the day. They
swam quietly and easily, their passage marked by a small V
at the rear of the partially exposed head. When I made no
change in my tempo and refrained from noise, one of them
kept on its course and passed close to me, but when I tapped
the canoe lightly it immediately dived and I saw it no more.
The other two swam to the bank and then went underwater,
evidently into their burrow entrance.

They are considered to be almost nocturnal in their habits,
but I have seen them now and then in the middle of the day
and very frequently before the sun has risen high in the
morning. On this trip I saw their droppings on little points
of projecting earth where they seem to make a practice of
leaving them. I saw empty shells on similar exposed bumps
and I assumed that they brought them there for food. I have
been told that they leave fresh mussels in the sun until they
open, but this is only hearsay. I have never seen any evi-
dence of food storage and wondered why until I was in-

Quintet 227

formed that they do not collect supplies for winter use.
Winter life must be comparatively easy in the marsh, for the
ice seldom gets more than two or three inches thick and
then only for a short time. It is therefore easy for the local
mammals to get about and feed on the crustaceans, the fresh-
water mussels, and other bottom dwellers. But where shal-
low ponds freeze to their bottoms the hazards must be
greatly increased and the mortality heavy. I have always
thought it strange that "marsh rabbit," which is sold freely
in some sections of the East, has never been popular as a
food in the West. The muskrat's habits are clean, its food
better than that eaten by the average chicken, and I cannot
see why it should not be as good or better than rabbit— but
I have not yet tried it.

The fur of this animal is soft, light, and strong, and is sold
under a number of trade names given it by the furriers. The
yield of marshes is so imposing and the number of skins
taken so great that the muskrat is the most important of the
North American fur mammals. Everywhere in the United
States and in many other countries the muskrat is exploited
by professional trappers, by farm boys in their spare hours,
and by part-time amateurs who find it an easy way of earn-
ing a little extra money. Commercial exploitation goes on in
the marsh each year. When trapped too closely a location is
abandoned because it is no longer profitable. When this hap-
pens rehabilitation usually begins at once, and a few years
of rest will find the area fairly well populated again.

I consider the muskrat, the first of this quintet, a creature
of peaceful disposition, doing practically no mammal preda-
tion, living largely upon aquatic vegetation of little economic
value and, except for its occasional piercing of earth dams
and irrigating banks, doing very little damage to its neigh-
bors. It lives within the marsh boundaries, takes its living
from the marsh community, and seldom leaves the area ex-
cept to go to one of like characteristics. I suspect that most

228 Union Bay

muskrats in the marsh die a violent death, some at the hands
of trappers, others from the attacks of owls, dogs, hawks,
and minks. It is almost a law of such communities that the
animal which takes its living there shall, at some early or late
time, furnish its own carcass as food to the inhabitants of the
same area.

The mink which I saw that morning stood on a log raft
and looked at me, if a mink can so look, with a mixture of
curiosity and insolence. It loped to the back of the raft, then
ran along parallel to the progress of the canoe, stopping only
when it reached the last boom stick. Its wariness either is
sometimes suspended or is overcome by its inquisitiveness,
for often I have let my canoe drift toward it until I could
have touched it with my paddle. It did not move until I had
to back-water to prevent hitting the shore or a log. Only then
would it turn and walk away. It is a member of the weasel
family and has many of the weasel habits and much of its
structure. It is long, slim, and short-legged. Its habits over-
lap with those of the muskrat in that both of them eat frogs,
clams, shellfish, and some vegetation as well. But from there
on the habits of the two mammals are quite different. I think
that it lacks the top swimming ability of the otter, although
I have always regarded the mink as a master of its craft. It
probably spends more time on the shores and margins of the
streams than in the stream itself. That does not mean that it
is not at home there, for it is an excellent fisherman, a hunter
of aquatic birds and mammals, and an especial enemy of
muskrats which it is able to follow into the depths of their
burrows. I have always wondered to what extent the brown
rats in the nearby sanitary fill are used for food by the mink,
and whether the presence of rats reduces the pressure on
the muskrat. Mink are known everywhere as excellent rat-
ters, and many descriptions have been written of the daring
and skill of the attack. The battle, which is said to be very

Quintet 229

short, ends with a grip on the head or neck of the victim and
results in immediate death.

Mink, like the rest of the weasel family, have strong scent
glands which they use freely when angry or frightened. That
the odor is unmistakable and unpleasant is indicated by fre-
quent reference to that of the skunk. Some have called it
the worst of the two, a comparison which requires proof.

The habits of mink are not all bad. They eat live and dead
birds, wounded waterfowl, fish, rats, mice, and other small
mammals. There is some disagreement regarding the eco-
nomic status of this mammal, but some authorities hold that
its destruction of farm pests and smaller predators accom-
plishes good far in excess of harm. I am afraid that most
farmers would contest this statement as few agriculturists
have any use for any members of the weasel family. Its life
in the marsh probably does not often end as a feast for other
predators because in the city there are few that might be a
match for it. It is quite possible that, in the wild, the wolf,
coyote, and other large carnivores are able to catch it un-
awares and finish it without even offering it a chance of
battle.

One mammal in the marsh does interfere with the normal
interrelationship. Man, the predator, hunts yearly for the
mink. Its fur is fine, soft, durable, rich, and much coveted by
women of means. One mink usually surpasses several musk-
rats in value, and so, during the trapping season, the marsh
harbors traps which take a few of the animals.

The mink is historically noted as the first mammal to be
raised in captivity for its fur, a business which I thought was
probably thirty years old but which, I found to my astonish-
ment, was tried over one hundred years ago. The venture
has been a success, the proportion of pelts sold from animals
in captivity continually increases, and many furriers claim
that eventually fur farms will be the principal source of mink
fur. The number of mink is determined by economic rather

2S0 Union Bay

than natural controls. As the price of the fur goes up, trap-
ping increases and the supply diminishes. When prices go
down, trapping is less extensively followed and the number
increases.

The mink, second of the quintet, then, is not a vegetarian
like the muskrat but obtains the greater part of its living as
a predator— as a hunter of birds, fish, and small mammals,
and as a consumer of dead fish which happen to come its
way. The marsh economic status of the mink is largely based
upon its choice of food: the proportion of the beneficial to
the injurious creatures which it consumes. A diet of water-
fowl would be regarded as harmful, but if the brown rat . is
its principal food, the mink might be considered a beneficial
factor in the marsh.

When I left the area where I had seen the mink I was in
somewhat of a quandary. I had passed the best time of the
day looking for rails. If they came out of the marsh at all, it
was when the shadows were heavy enough to limit visibility,
and there was plenty of protective darkness in the nearby
tangle of cattails. I thought it useless to look for more mam-
mals. I scarcely ever saw more than one a day, and this morn-
ing I had already seen two. It was too much to expect to do
better.

I started toward the canoehouse but did not get far. I
stopped because I could think of no better place to spend the
rest of the day. It was the time of year when the gulls had
begun to gather on the log boom, when fat mallard hens
drowsed in the sun, and the tule wrens recalled bits of their
spring songs. The temperature exactly suited me. The water
of the bay had lost its summer murkiness. The cottonwoods
were feeling the approach of fall so that now and then a leaf
dropped into the water.

I let the canoe drift across the bay and paddled into the
cove. There I decided that this was my lucky day. A noise

Quintet 231

on the west side of the canoe attracted my attention and I
turned as two brown shapes appeared at the surface. They
looked about, showing no alarm at the nearness of the canoe,
then dived again. In previous visits I had seen them come
up with frogs, but this pair might have been playing for they
dived repeatedly and emerged with empty mouths. They
moved about in their typical otter manner, diving, some-
times appearing close together, and then widely separated.
After a short time they headed toward the open bay and I
lost sight of them.

I considered the position in the marsh of this third mem-
ber of the quintet— the otter. It was friendly to such locations
and a regular but temporary visitor. When the timber re-
mained around the lake and men were not plentiful, these
mammals had probably lived and raised their young in the
area. They were never numerous like the muskrats. They are
great wanderers and often make regular tours after the
breeding season. Their food includes such items as shellfish,
crustaceans, some vegetation, and frogs, but their principal
diet is fish, and in that field they are competitive only with
the mink. Their long, contoured bodies are well suited to
animals whose land habits are only incidental to their water
existence. They are the most efficient of our marsh swimming
mammals, well equipped to make their way upstream through
the fastest of white water. They lack the ferocity of the
weasel and mink and make intelligent and interesting pets.
Although I have seen many of their slides, I have never seen
the animals play on them. For many years no other creature
attracted me like the otter. This was because I had read a
book, Tarka, the Otter, written by an Englishman named
Williamson, a writer who has most effectively portrayed the
life of a wild animal. It made me realize that fair play is one
of the great necessities of a conservation program.

At present the otter makes such short stays that it has
little effect on the marsh situation. It has had a small part in

2S2 Union Bay

the disappearance of the bullfrog. At one time the bullfrog's
voice was heard as regularly as the automobile horns at some
village intersection, but now it is almost silent. Certainly the
otters like them, for nearly every time I have seen them they
were fishing for and catching bullfrogs in the shallow, rush-
filled water of the west margin.

Naturally solitary and never present in great numbers, the
otters are not plentiful in the state of Washington. Trapping
disposes of many of them during the season, and as the fur,
though heavy, is rich and durable, the pressure will unques-
tionably increase rather than diminish. In the marsh there
is no probability that they will again be permanent. Their
competition with other marsh animals can be regarded as
negligible.

In terms of baseball my batting average remained high.
My next hit came unexpectedly: after passing a short stretch
and rounding a small bend, I caught sight of a weasel stand-
ing on a bank. Movement frightens some animals and they
immediately dart away. But I think that it was the move-
ment of the canoe that attracted and held the weasel. It must
have stopped short while it was crossing a low branch, for
its head was erect, its small forefeet were on the wood, and
its rear feet were still on the ground. The creature was hand-
some, graceful, sinuous, with tannish-brown back and yellow
underparts. Small head, white throat, and bright beady eyes
gave it a somewhat sinister appearance.

Except that it is not a regular eater of fish, the weasel
might be described as a smaller edition of a mink, equally
efficient, active, and bold. I am quite sure that it does not
enter the water regularly, although in the marsh I have seen
it most often close to the water in the growth along the banks
and on sticks and logs. I have met it less than the other mem-
bers of the quintet, but the canoehouse manager sees it much
oftener than he does the mink. When a weasel hunts around

Quintet 233

the canoehouse for mice and rats, the two dogs bark and at-
tract the owner's attention.

Accounted the most bloodthirsty of the local mammals,
it has few traits which appeal to people. It is a killer of mice
and birds, with the former probably furnishing the greatest
number of victims. Powerful neck and shoulders, long sharp
teeth, quickness, and courage make the weasel able and
willing to tackle and vanquish any prey which it meets.
I have not seen it kill in the marsh, but the cries of terrified
creatures in the mountain rock slides, and the appearance
of a weasel soon afterward, have taught me much of its
power and domination over animals, which sometimes ex-
ceed it in size. Authorities have estimated that the weasel
eats over twice its weight a week. If a man consumed a com-
parable poundage in lamb chops, he would have to be as
busy as this slim, tireless, and fearless creature because, at
present prices, it would require between two and three hun-
dred dollars a week to pay the butcher, a formidable job
even at overtime rates. There seems to be some evidence that
the weasel stores some food for future requirements. A few
burrows, when opened for examination, have been found to
contain unconsumed small rodents.

I have always suspected that the weasel has more ene-
mies than the mink. Its smaller size brings it within the
predatory capabilities of many more birds and mammals. It
is probably a regular part of the food of the mink. Its posi-
tion in the food chain is intermediate.

Here in the marsh the habits of this creature cannot be
said to be especially harmful. Although it lives by predation
there are no poultry yards to be raided, and the greater part
of its activities are probably directed toward the smaller
rodents which far outnumber its other possible prey. Its com-
petition with the rest of the quintet may be assumed to be
small, for it does not take the larger birds attacked by the
mink and seldom enters the water for prey. Locally, it there-

234 Union Bay

fore fills a unique and perhaps beneficial place. The hate
heaped upon the weasel is not always justified, and I have
thought it largely due to the charge— which is sometimes
true— that it kills far more than it can use.

The manager, raised on a farm where he had witnessed
the ferocity of the weasel when the animal was loose in a
henhouse, has a quite definite opinion of it. When we saw
one standing on the bank, he said:

"That fellow's going to have a short life if it keeps fooling
around here."

"You haven't much love for weasels," I said.

Unsmiling, he replied:

"I don't concern myself with them when they are just trav-
eling. But when they begin using the birds around here for
their meal ticket, then it's different."

"Do you keep them cleaned up?"

"The dogs do a pretty good job, but once in awhile an ani-
mal starts hanging around," he said. "Then I make it my
business. I'm not going to have a weasel staying and bother-
ing the young birds that feed at the float and live around
here."

"Do you think there are many?" I asked.

"If there was only one, it would' be too many as far as I'm
concerned. All farmers feel the same way. They look after
and feed the birds and they don't like to have the young dis-
appearing one by one until they are all gone. They size up
the weasel as a plain murderer and they take steps to stop it.
A man's got a perfect right to protect himself against such
vermin."

Incidentally, the manager thinks that weasels are easily
eliminated. The cat is not the only animal that becomes the
victim of curiosity. A weasel may make a terrific dash for
shelter, but before retiring permanently it frequently steps
out for a look-see. This habit is often its undoing.

Quintet 235

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. A banana
and a sandwich remaining from noon made a scanty supper.
I drifted, slept a little, and moved from place to place as the
impulse came to me. Exploring was over for the day. I left
the east end of the bay where the wind had blown me and
paddled toward the canoehouse. Boats which had been out
on Pudget Sound passed through the canal on their way back
to their moorings. The gulls had left the log boom and were
slowly flying to their roosting grounds. I heard the sound of
a distant fog horn; mist or smoke had begun to settle in some
pockets on salt water. The marsh smell had replaced the
sweetness of the summer odors. I passed the outer islands
and into the channel which led to the canoehouse. I had en-
joyed the long day but was beginning to be glad that it was
over. I removed my field glasses and put them in their case
just as I saw movement in the water. The slap of my paddle
was a bit loud and was followed by the slap of the animal's
tail as it went under water. I could scarcely believe my good
fortune at first. It was a beaver. I had batted one thousand.
My score had been perfect. For the first, and probably for
the last time, I had broken all the laws of probability and had
seen in one day every member of the marsh quintet.

Pigskins and Dowitchers

20

*** W ♦ I THINK THAT NOBODY CAN GATN-

say this: the life of a city is certainly different from that of a
marsh, so much different that the existence of one is not
compatible with the existence of the other. But sometimes
the two are found continuing, temporarily at least, in a sort
of balance which grows progressively less in favor of the
marsh and progressively more in favor of the city. Often
there is a remarkable amount of adaptability on the part of
the marsh dwellers so that with half a chance they manage to
exist and even to prosper. This is the story of one of the days
in the area when the impact of the human crowd seemed al-
most overwhelming. It began this way. I walked down to the
canoehouse one September morning with the feeling that fall
was very near. The wall of the big athletic pavilion was free
of the many cliff swallows which yearly daubed their clay
nests in the high window recesses. They had flown late in
August. The barn swallows which nested freely in small
buildings and tunnels around the stadium had either left or
were with the birds which had congregated in the marsh
preparatory to migrating. All the haziness caused by summer
forest fires had disappeared, and the Cascades, tipped by

236

Pigskins and Dowitchers

237

early snow, revealed an undefiled beauty which only such
storms can bring.

If the departure of some birds indicated the passing of
summer, the arrival of others announced the beginning of
fall. Hundreds of gulls crowded the baseball field on the
north side of the road. They had been away for several
months to their breeding grounds but now they were back,
some only temporarily before they went farther south and
others for the entire season. A dozen killdeers ran up and
down the outfield and uttered their silly cries in what was
apparently an attempt to excite the other birds. The gulls
simply remained in one spot and followed my progress by
turning their heads, and in the meantime gaped with wide-
open bills or stretched their wings as a newly awakened man
might stretch his arms. The colors of their bills varied from
flesh to yellowish-green, their mantles were of different

238 Union Bay

shades of gray, and their legs of pinkish, yellow, or yellowish-
green, which told me that all of our common gulls— the her-
ring, the short-billed, the ring-billed, the California, and the
glaucous-winged— were present.

If this had been a practice day for the football squad, the
space back of the athletic pavilion and to the south of the
road would have offered more proof that fall had come, for
this was the spot where the team prepared for the season,
where two hundred of the University's brawniest gathered
and submitted to the formidable training that would put
them in condition to qualify as defenders of the football
honor of the University.

I had often stopped to watch while they practiced. They
went through bending exercises, they lay flat on their backs
and did the bicycle, they sprinted madly up and down the
field, they passed and kicked the ball. They shifted and sig-
naled and plunged from formations. The coach, megaphone
in hand, observed everything from a small tower, and when-
ever necessary gave instructions which were put into effect
by the assistant coaches on the field. Although the men were
soft and out of condition at the beginning, the practice pro-
ceeded rapidly. No time of year was tougher for a football
squad, but for the gulls in the field no time was easier. Their
young had long been able to shift for themselves. The ma-
ture birds could sleep the day out, if they chose, in the mild
sun. The complete immobility of the whole flock showed its
total relaxation.

I had seen no such relaxation among the coaches and
players. Football was a sport for the multitude, but for the
participants it was grim business where wisecracks and
friendly smiles seemed to have no place. From among the
candidates would be selected the fourscore men who would
make up the regular squad to represent the University dur-
ing the football season. From thirty to sixty thousand people
would see each of the games. A million more would hear the

Pigskins and Dowitchers 239

radio accounts and would rejoice at the team's success and
feel free to criticize it and the coaches for the losses. Fame
would come to the regulars; obscurity and drudgery would
be the lot of the reserves. There may have been light-heart-
edness and humor in the showers, but I saw none on the held.
The man who fumbled the ball or failed to follow instructions
showed by his actions in the next trial that he realized the
enormity of his crime and was determined not to repeat it.
There was no letdown. Men who apparently had been over-
looked by the coaches gathered in little groups and busied
themselves at practicing starts or passing the ball. When I
left I had never failed to contrast the two sides of the road,
the gulls so indifferent to the problems of living, and the men
so intensely absorbed with the intricacies of sport.

On this day the practice field was deserted. It was easy to
tell why. The popcorn and candy trucks parked in advan-
tageous situations, the student guards placed at intervals to
prevent cars from blocking vital lanes, the sight of boys
wandering about the stadium fence, and of men going in
and out of the gates clearly indicated that a game would be
played in the afternoon.

At the canoehouse a sturdy black-headed lad of about
twelve watched me as I worked.

"What you doing, mister?" he asked.

"I'm getting ready to go out in a canoe."

"You going to be out long?"

"Four or five hours, I expect."

"How much do they charge?"

I told him the hourly rate. He looked at me incredulously.

"Gosh, mister. You could see the game for that. You could
get a good seat, too."

As I pushed off I knew just how a boy of that age felt. Why
did a man who could go to a football game want to do any-
thing else? Nothing should keep him away. Nothing could
keep him away from so desirable an event. He reminded me

240 Union Bay

of the boy William in the play, The Return of Peter Grimm.
The boy rushed into the room carrying the two circus tickets
which Peter had asked him to get. He refused to believe the
doctor's statement that Peter was dead, and he cried out:
"He can't be dead, I've got his ticket to the circus."

Out in the canoe I found that it was a dancing day. Multi-
tudes of small insects dipped almost to the water surface and
then rose a foot or so to repeat the movement. The rhythmic
flight entirely surrounded me and may have covered the en-
tire marsh. Then came dime-sized moths which flew, not
with the graceful rise and fall of the first performers, but
clumsily and abruptly. I could hear the faint . buzz of their
wings if they were near the canoe. This abundance of food
was not long overlooked: a pair of sparrows hopped along a
floating log and skillfully picked off the insects that came
within range. The barn swallows which had been assembling
in the marsh appeared in great numbers, the birds of the year
distinguishing themselves by the awkwardness of their flight
and the clumsiness of their hunting. Many thousands of in-
sects must have been taken but thousands more still danced
in abundance.

I found that it was to be a day of activity everywhere.
Practice planes from some aviation school droned back and
forth at uncomfortably low levels. The noise of a loud speaker
came from the stadium— the half-completed sentences indi-
cated that they were testing the system. Somewhere on the
campus the assembled band practiced the promising strains
of "Roll Out the Barrel." Workmen walked about the sta-
dium and gave the preparations a final look. The great struc-
ture stood cold and lonesome, but I knew that shortly it
would be vitalized by the bright colors of the crowd.

The fact that the stadium would soon be full of moving,
cheering people did not affect the activity in the marsh. The
blackbirds, which always used the big cottonwood trees at
the north end for their fall gathering, chattered and flew

Pigskins and Dowitchers 241

about in mass movements, then returned to the tree with
chattering undiminished. Two bitterns left the ground to
which they ordinarily confined themselves and made a couple
of slow flights over the cattails. The chickadees and song
sparrows sang disjointed portions of their spring songs. Some-
thing about the day stirred the marsh life into pleasant
movement. Only the mallard with her convoy of young that
I had seen the week before was absent. I looked for her con-
stantly as I paddled along. If cups and trophies had been
presented in the marsh, she would have been entitled to the
grand prize, for she had brought out the latest brood of
young mallards that I had ever seen or could check in the
local records. I was anxious to find out how such a late
hatching would progress.

I heard the clear and thin keek of one of our regular fall
visitors and soon found the bird on a mud flat. It was a long-
billed dowitcher, a brownish-colored shorebird, a little larger
than a robin, plump bodied, moderately long-legged, with a
habit of feeding in soft ground. There it probes with a bill
which has the advantage not only of length but of a set of
sensitive nerve centers which instantly determine the char-
acter of things it touches. As I moved closer it uttered a little
gurgling cry which I had long since learned was a note of
alarm or uneasiness. Most birds would have flown, but not
this one. Webster's dictionary has described the dowitcher
as the tamest and most easily killed of the larger snipe. It sig-
nificantly adds: "They are fast being exterminated." The
name dowitcher is supposed to have been derived from the
Indian ta-wish or ta-wis. If this is true the present word may
have evolved from the adding of an er and a change in spell-
ing. But like many other names the origin is obscure and an-
other ornithologist has suggested that the name resembles
the bird's call. Elliott Coues associated the word with
"Dutch" or "German" snipe. I had never seen just one dow-
itcher before. They usually appeared in the marsh in groups

242 Union Bay

of from three to six. I thought that its being alone might
account for its restlessness, for it did not feed and it finally
crossed to an exposed piece of land. It would not go far and
I could look it up later.

I paddled into the bay to search for the mallard hen and
her ducklings while I watched the incoming people. The
floor of the field was not visible, but I was at the open end
where I could see all the upper seats and the gay flags of the
colleges. The gates were still closed and only a few men, evi-
dently in charge of ushers, moved back and forth. Cars were
beginning to park, with considerable noise of engines and of
brakes which, strangely enough, reminded me of the spring
chorus of frogs— their shrill tones softened and blended by
the distance. Motorcycle police patrolled the highway and
directed traffic. Thirty thousand people must be taken care
of before two in the afternoon, so it was necessary to put the
first arrivals in places that would set a pattern for, and facili-
tate, parking during the rush.

My canoe had drifted against a log which seemed a good
place to tie to. The situation afforded a fine view of the sta-
dium, the slope leading up to the campus, and the University
buildings. Between the stadium and the campus stretched
the road which brought the fans to the game. A thin string
of people trickled along the path which crossed over a via-
duct to the field. Through my binoculars I noticed that many
of the women wore yellow chrysanthemums and that some
of the men carried robes, pennants, and pillows. Along the
highway the cars turned in, backed and parked under the
eyes of attendants, then unloaded their passengers for the
walk to the gates. Football is a grand game, but what a com-
plex affair it has become: million-dollar stadiums, annual
gate receipts that run into big fractions of a million, strings
of coaches, assistant coaches, trainers and rubbers, and
scores of players— all are an accepted part of the game. A
long road had been traveled since the time when two sides

Pigskins and Dowitchers 243

chose up and kicked a ball about the commons. The trend is
more toward making it a great city spectacle rather than a
friendly competitive sport.

But I had only to focus my eyes on the immediate fore-
ground to forget the confusion and excitement and imagine
myself in some country marsh. The black water and the cat-
tails which lined the shore were exactly as I would have seen
them far from town, and the smell was like that of the coun-
try, varying with the rising or dropping of the breeze and as
distinctive as the smell of sagebrush after a shower. The little
waves that struck the boat seemed to push back the feeling
that I was in the city, and the many minnows which moved
through the floating pond weed recalled quiet reaches in
some isolated lake. A dragonfly hovered about, then dropped
down and landed on my knee where it rested motionless
until, with a swift maneuver, it shot up a distance of two
feet, captured a flying mosquito, and as rapidly returned to
my knee. This happened twice and each time I thought that
I heard a click as it attacked, but I may have been mistaken.
I observed the insect closely while it remained motionless,
blue-green and with black bands on back and with dark
knobby head. Then it flew away.

For the rest of the day I divided my attention between
wildlife and sports. The stadium gates opened and the tun-
nel entrances spewed their contents so that, in almost no
time, the nonreserved seats were filled. Then the tunnels of
the reserved sections began to discharge a slow stream of
spectators who had no need to hurry but came early to see
the preliminaries. I heard the shrill cry of a crow just as a
Cooper hawk dropped into a cottonwood where the bird was
sitting, almost at the edge of the stadium field. The crow
showed its anger by calling and by hopping from branch to
branch above and to the side of the intruder. The hawk sat
motionless as if too proud to pay attention to the indignant
protests. When the crow finally left, it first hopped to the top

244 Union Bay

of the tree, and I wondered if it was because it was afraid
to give the hawk an opportunity to attack from above. The
hawk remained indifferent. I had seen it in the marsh before,
and I think it fed on the chickadees and smaller birds. It
played its own game, one more deadly than the one which
soon began.

It was nearly one-thirty. A gaily colored moving strip of
people had replaced the thin line crossing the viaduct, and
a wide band crowded along the highway from the unloading
cars. Horn blowing never ceased. Paper and program boys
shouted. A continuous procession of buses discharged their
loads at the rear of the stadium. The tunnel entrances poured
out crowds faster than the ushers could seat them. The roofs
of the small buildings became covered with students who
sprawled and smoked while they waited. The public address
system announced the scores of eastern games and the spec-
tators cheered the victories of their favorites. Now the band
began. It was a skillfully executed build-up, with the tempo
gradually increasing and the crowd becoming more tense
and expectant. The announcement of the teams and their
starting line-ups came to me clearly. At last, the hush for the
national anthem, a great roar as the ball was kicked, and the
game was on.

I had seen three fair-sized shore'birds with white on their
backs fly and land on a small flat between me and the sta-
dium. What could be nicer than to anchor there and do a
little photographing while I listened to the game? I was glad
to find that the birds were dowitchers. They stood in water
three inches deep and busily probed as if they found the re-
sults satisfactory. My approach brought out a series of alarm
notes, but I moved slowly and carefully and succeeded in
grounding the canoe without flushing them. Cheers from the
field indicated that some spectacular play had been made by
the home team, but the noise of the low-flying planes pre-
vented me from hearing what had occurred.

Pigskins and Dowitchers 245

The game went on, the cheering continued, the bands
played, the planes circled continually, the sun appeared and
reappeared from under thin clouds while three birds from
northern Alaska fed within two blocks of the stadium. Now
that the canoe was still and they were accustomed to my
presence, they showed no concern at the click of the camera,
the winding of the spring, or my movements. I was curious
to know whether they had been near to man or other preda-
tors. Such unconcern appeared unnatural even in these, the
friendliest of shorebirds. Food was not much of a problem
for them. The depth at which they fed removed all compe-
tition: most of the shorebirds which visited the marsh lacked
length of bill, and only the Wilson snipe could reach the
layers where the dowitchers probed. In how many marshes
had they fed between here and the Alaska area where their
kind courted, mated, and nested? In how many marshes
would they feed between here and their winter range which
reached from our southern states into Central America and
as far south as Ecuador?

I learned from the public address system and the cheering
that our team was not doing well. The rooters frantically im-
plored the players to "hold that line," a request which was
ignored, for just before the end of the first half the visitors
scored. This was a decided upset, as the odds were much
against them, and the sports writers had predicted a victory
for the home team. The half ended with the score, 7-0. I
could not see the field but I knew the routine that followed
at half time: the striking card displays, the drill of the col-
lege band, and a few comic stunts. The crowd roared its ap-
proval and the period passed quickly.

My guests evinced no interest and fed steadily, stopping
only once when some low-flying gulls passed. They might
have thought them hawks, for they cried excitedly before re-
suming their probing. After awhile they seemed less hungry,
their industry dwindled, and then they abruptly prepared to

246 Union Bay

sleep. They stood close to shore, the water just touching their
feet; they placed their long bills under their wings, raised
one leg, and stood with eyes nearly closed. The terrific roar
which accompanied the second-half kickoff did not open a
single eye.

Two of the planes had left the area so that I could now
hear the announcer almost continually. The home team
began to do better: the chant of the rooters changed from
"hold 'em" to "touchdown" and before much time had
elapsed a touchdown had been made and the extra point
kicked with a resultant 7-7 score.

There was no sportsmanship in the dowitchers. They ig-
nored the game and continued their nap, the light wind stir-
ring their feathers, and their bodies swaying easily on one
leg. Had they been standing on both they would have been
subjected to constant strain. Now and then their nearly
closed eyes opened wide, then were almost immediately shut
again. I struck the canoe sides with my open hands to note
their reactions— they awoke with a little jump that moved
them a few inches, glanced about, closed their eyes, and re-
sumed their sleeping. I next struck the side sharply with the
end of the paddle— they shivered violently but did not move.
Quite evidently they had no fear of me. Such trustfulness
would make them easy prey for a mink or fox. Possibly they
had come a long distance and needed sleep badly.

I must confess that a nap seemed like a good idea. I closed
my eyes and stretched out on the pillows. But I could not let
myself go. I wanted to watch the guests and hear the prog-
ress of the game. I sat up and went back to my business. The
birds still slept, the game dragged, the desire for a nap re-
turned, but only for a moment. Then I glanced to the south
and saw a number of tiny white triangles floating on the
water and bearing down on me. I wished that some of the
fairy-loving children of my friends might have been here,
for it was a fleet of feather galleons from the moult of some

Pigskins and Dowitchers 247

marsh mallard. Each was composed of a single feather whose
lower third rested on the water and whose upper part curled
upward to make as proud a sail as might have been seen on
a Spanish caravel. A hundred, possibly more, with wind in
their sails, bobbed and progressed in compact formation
until they passed the canoe and disappeared far down the
bay. The little people themselves could not have fashioned
a more lovely and impressive flotilla.

The fortunes of the game moved back and forth with the
home team showing a slight superiority, but facing the ne-
cessity of again scoring if they were to avoid a tie. The po-
sition was desperate— were they to start the season with a
virtual defeat by the smallest college in the conference? The
answer came in the last two minutes of play. A touchdown
and a successful try-for-point put the visitors at the short end
of a 14-7 score and the half was soon over. From the stand-
point of the spectators it had all the elements of a perfect
contest. No novel of action could have been better con-
structed: great promise at the beginning, conflict, temporary
defeat, misfortune almost assured, then the sudden reversal,
and the happy ending. The crowd listened to the playing of
the alma mater and went out contented.

The afternoon was over for them but not for me. I was
looking into the private chambers of my bird guests. I had
watched them feed and slumber. Now I saw them in all the
intimacy of their toilet preparation. Two of them had fin-
ished their bath, and while the third still slept they began
the exacting task of caring for their plumage. The process
spoke much for the advantages and economy of simplicity.
First came a series of shakings of the entire body until every
surplus drop of water was thrown off— an excellent substi-
tute for a large Turkish towel. A preliminary adjustment of
the feathers followed. Most important of all was the applica-
tion of a special kind of toilet and waterproofing oil long
known as a reliable preparation for imparting that sleek and

248 Union Bay

shiny look to the appearance. This oil did not come from an
overpriced and elaborately shaped container but from the
bird's own traveling kit— oil sacs located in its back and just
in front of the base of the tail. The long bill dipped into this
container and then applied the substance bit by bit until
every feather in the plumage had been properly treated.
Many careful rubbings and feather adjustments accompa-
nied the applications so that, before the task was completed,
the inevitable confusion that accompanies the break-up of a
football game was over and the traffic was almost normal.

But I was in no huny. I wanted to see the finish of this
careful routine which required as much attention as the
headdress of an actress but which served so different a pur-
pose. The toilet of the human female is primarily for beauty
while that of the dowitchers is essentially for utility and is as
important for the male as for the female. The necessity for
proper care of the bird's plumage cannot be overlooked.
Anything that interferes with its functioning may have seri-
ous results. Flight depends upon the condition of the feathers
and warmth is maintained by the insulating effect of the
plumage and of the air cells which are created. The many
fuel-oil-soaked birds that I have seen dying upon the beaches
have taught me that the bunching of sticky feathers abso-
lutely removes this insulation. Without this protection the
birds are exposed to the weather with the same consequences
that are suffered by a man who has been robbed of his
clothes and left to wander in a winter storm. The birds in
some manner must have known how necessary this treatment
is to survival, for the whole ceremony was performed with
the utmost deliberation and care. Every small area was
reached by the oil-applying bill and every part was smoothed
carefully. Then followed the final polish when the head
moved about rapidly and the long bill flew here and there
like a fencer's sword with such seeming recklessness that it
seemed certain that damage would be done. Gradually the

Pigskins and Dowitchers 249

speed diminished and die birds gave the last smoothing with
the soft side of the head. This done, they started feeding.
Their movements awoke their companion. Was the bath
preliminary to the resumption of feeding after the nap? If
bathing was the rule, the third bird did not observe it.

Before leaving I again tried to discover if any particular
kind of noises disturbed them. Increasingly noisy raps ( made
within reason) had no effect. They looked up quickly but
did not appear alarmed when I whistled; they disregarded
hissing sounds and notes which I fondly thought might re-
semble the cry of an owl. I could have stood up in the canoe
and waved my arms, but I felt that I had been treated as an
old friend who had been tried and found without evil inten-
tions toward them. Touched by this display of confidence, I
prepared to leave. The stadium was now as empty as it had
been when I arrived in the morning. I looked once more for
the mallard hen and chicks but they were nowhere to be
seen.

My departure caused no excitement. The birds were evi-
dently still hungry, for as the canoe slipped off the bar and I
dipped my paddle, I saw them again pushing their long bills
into the soft ooze of the bottom.

. •****.,...

Sky Sweepers

21

♦ I SUSPECT THAT NO OTHER BIRDS

have the world-wide standing of the swallows. Waterfowl
are widely distributed, but their usual habits do not bring
them close to man; shorebirds are hard to distinguish; gulls
have so many plumage changes that identification of species
is not easy; many small birds keep pretty well out of sight.
But swallows are known almost everywhere.

I thought of them one day in the football season shortly
after I had simultaneously watched the dowitchers and lis-
tened to the football game. The fall birds had begun to arrive
in the bay. Diving birds fed in various spots: the eared
grebes in the areas close to shore and one common loon in
the open water near the entrance to the lake. For the hun-
dredth time I tried to stalk a loon and get really close to it,
but, as usual, its body, slaty gray in fall plumage, disap-
peared in a smooth dive and reappeared in unpredictable
places, sometimes in front, sometimes to the side, of the
canoe, but never close. The western grebes, almost as large
and equally proficient as divers, were less wary. Though their
underwater directions were never certain, they sometimes
came up within a few yards of me. They were graceful birds

250

Sky Sweepers

251

&

with gray back, black top of head and back of neck, and
white underparts. In some places their graceful necks, much
slimmer than those of the loon, have given them the name of
swan grebe. One of them paddled along with what I thought
was a broken and projecting wing feather, but it proved to
be a leg held over the side of the body in a strange and
puzzling manner. I thought its position was probably due to
injury, an idea which was soon dispelled when I saw others
of the five birds in the group, floating along with leg held in
the same grotesque fashion.

Something seemed to be lacking in the marsh that day. I
did not know at first just what. Then I realized that the swal-
lows had left. Thousands had congregated in late August.
Most of them disappeared a week or so later but small flocks
had still flown about. On my previous visit three of them had

252 Union Bay

searched busily for insects over the water. Where had they
gone?

I could have answered the question without difficulty had
I been a Greek follower of Aristotle. Observers in the Middle
Ages would have had a ready explanation. I could have got-
ten the same ready answer from the country folk and even
from the scientists of a couple of hundred years ago. All
would have said that, summer being over, the birds had hid-
den themselves in dark caves or crevices where they would
remain until spring, or they had buried themselves in the soft
mud of the marsh where anybody who knew how to find
them could dig them out. If I had been incredulous, many
reputable witnesses could have been produced who had seen
them in the veiy act of submerging: they had crowded a bul-
rush to such an extent that the stalk yielded slowly and
gracefully to the strain and the whole mass approached the
water steadily. I had seen this performance many times in
the fall; how could I doubt the veracity of the witnesses? Of
course I had never seen the birds actually submerge. In fact,
I thought them young birds which wanted to flock together
and which had shown bad judgment in overloading their
perches. They had always flown away just at the moment of
immersion. Perhaps it was only my misfortune or lack of per-
sistence which had prevented me from seeing the actual
entry into the water on their way to the soft security of the
marsh bottom. The arguments against me would have been
heavy if I had tried to deny the hibernation. Did not the
birds congregate in large numbers and then disappear prac-
tically over night? Had anybody seen them afterward? They
could not get insect food in cold weather and they must seek
a winter hiding place. Did not mammals and fish hibernate?
Why should not birds? I could see little chance of winning
such an argument.

I thought it strange that the belief in the hibernation of
swallows had persisted for so many centuries. For swallows

Sky Sweepers 253

must always have been known to people. In many cases, the
disappearance of their original type of nesting sites has caused
them to live in structures erected by man. Usually the birds
feed at a level low enough to be seen easily. They take in-
sects stirred up by the feeding chickens and the moving live-
stock. They are friendly, gregarious in their habits, and nu-
merous. They are so well known that they are mentioned in
history, fable, folklore, and legend. They were referred to
in early literature. I wondered what these early writers knew
and thought about them. Perhaps a sketchy sampling of early
writing might give information concerning these birds and
the general status of bird knowledge, as well.

Aristotle, the Greek philosopher who lived in the fourth
century B.C., had discussed them. He wrote that some birds
had feet of little power so they were called apodes. Such
birds were powerful on the wing and, as a rule, birds which
resembled them were weak-footed and strong-winged like
the swallows. Their nest building denoted great intelligence:
the swallows mixed mud and chaff together and, if mud were
not obtainable, they made their own by sousing their bodies
in water and rolling about in the dry dust. Parents cooperated
in the training of their young, feeding the nestlings each in
turn, removing droppings from the nest at first until the
young themselves learned cleanliness. He said that the swal-
lows bred twice a year instead of once as did most other
birds. Swallows are among the worst enemies of bees. He
described the position of the bird's gall bladder and the
shape of its stomach. He thought that some birds practiced
hibernation and swallows were among them. They had often
been found hidden in holes, quite denuded of feathers.

He might have gotten away with such a talk today if he
had delivered it to people who had paid little attention to
nature. It indicated field observation, examination by dissec-
tion, and an attempt to draw conclusions from the evidence.
There were some obvious errors but there was enough truth

254 Union Bay

so that for centuries Aristotle was the great authority on the
subjects about which he wrote. And this in spite of state-
ments such as these: injured wild boars hunt a plant called
dittany to eject arrows from the body, the weasel eats wild
rice before fighting the snake, a stag wounded by a venom-
ous snake gathers crabs and eats them.

Four hundred years later, Pliny the Elder, a Roman, re-
ferred to swallows in the chapters on birds in his Natural
History. Much seemed to be a rehash of Aristotle with the
addition of some of the popular beliefs of the period. The
swallow, he wrote, would not enter a house in Thebes, be-
cause the city had been so often captured, nor would it ap-
proach the country of the Bizyae because of the crimes that
had been committed there. Certain of the Romans used the
swallows as messengers of victory or for carrying other news.
In Egypt, the swallows yearly strengthened with chaff and
straw the shore of an island sacred to Isis and thus prevented
the annual floods from destroying it. This task was of such
magnitude that it required three days labor and so difficult
that it resulted in the death of many of the birds. These
stories are of the "It is said" variety so that it is difficult to
know whether the writer actually believed them or whether
they were thrown in as a stimulant to the reader.

The swallows must have been known to all. The Bible
speaks of them. The Psalms say "Yea, the sparrow hath found
an house, and the swallow a nest for herself. . . ." Hezekiah,
King of Judah, recovered of his illness, wrote, "Like a crane
or a swallow, so did I chatter." The poets did not neglect
them: Chaucer confirmed the bird's chattering mentioned
in the Bible with the following: "As any swalwe chitteryng
on a berne." Elsewhere he refers to "The swalow, mortrer
[murderer] of the flyes smale," and "The swalwe Proigne,
with a sorwful lay." Shakespeare asks the following question:
"Do you think me a swallow, an arrow or a bullet?" and else-
where remarks : "True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's

Sky Sweepers 255

wings." Tennyson beautifully states: "For knowledge is the
swallow on the lake." Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes an
"Ode to the Swallow." Few poets have omitted some refer-
ence to these birds.

The swallow is found among the fables. There was the
bird who had built her nest under the eaves of the court of
justice and whose young had been devoured by a serpent.
When reminded that others had met with similar misfor-
tunes, she replied that she mourned not the young ones but
that she should have been wronged in the very place where
the injured fly for justice. And there was the discussion of
plumage between the raven and the swallow. It ended by
the raven saying that the swallow's beauty was but for sum-
mer while his would stand for many winters. The folly of
overestimating one's capabilities is shown by the spider
which, hating the swallow because of its competition, de-
cides to snare it. The extra heavy net does entangle the swal-
low, but it soon flies off uninjured and carrying the entire
net, thus convincing the spider that it had better stick to the
catching of flies.

Here is an old recipe which indicates the swallow's con-
nection with superstition and love potions :

If anyone takes its [a swallow's] young ones, and puts them in a
pot, and when it is luted up, bakes them, then opening the pot, if he
considers, he will find two young ones kissing one another. If, there-
fore, you take those that kiss one another, and dissolve them in oil of
roses, or give the ashes to drink, it is a love potion.

Some of the American Indians, ordinarily indifferent about
small birds, were fond of the martin. They erected nests by
putting gourds on crossbars at the top of long poles and thus
protected the birds. It is said that they and southern Negroes
who still follow this practice believe that martins keep away
the hawks.

All of this tells us much of the position which the swallows

256 Union Bay

occupied in the communities, but it gives little indication of
the progress of knowledge about them. The advance must
have been slow. There could have been little accumulation in
those dull and unreceptive centuries which followed the pe-
riod of Rome's greatness and accompanied its decline. Re-
ligious thought not only dominated but almost displaced
scientific thought. Study became mere routine and was con-
stantly interfered with by the religious authorities. The Greek
manuscripts lost their standing and were seldom read. The
Physiologus and the bestiary, first intended to describe nat-
ural subjects, became merely moral comments on real or
mythological animals and without scientific value.

This is no place for a lengthy report on the progress of the
next centuries. Here and there great figures appeared, some
like Neckam and Albertus Magnus to revive interest again
in the early philosophers; and others, from early in the six-
teenth century, to begin work in various fields and to set the
stage for modern science. Several books on birds were
brought out, promising in that they contained some material
based on personal observation, but still including many state-
ments from the old traditions. The time came when the
astronomy of Ptolemy was replaced by the researches of
Copernicus. In the first half of the eighteenth century, Lin-
naeus produced the Systema Naturae which catalogued and
methodically outlined the arrangements of plants, animals,
and minerals. Its later revision, by Cuvier and other men
who followed, resulted in a system which, except in certain
details, is still in use. The extension of the use of the micro-
scope, the emphasis on anatomy, histology, physiologv, and
other branches promoted the rapid advancement of biologi-
cal science and helped to bring it to its present state.

Knowledge about swallows must have followed the prog-
ress of ornithology and accumulated slowly. It is said that
nearly two hundred papers and articles were written on the
subject of the hibernation of the birds before the theory was

Sky Sweepers 257

generally discarded. Tt is certain that here and there people
will be found who still believe that it is a regular and. com-
mon practice. As late as the middle of the eighteenth century
men had made affidavits that they had seen swallows revived
after winter burial in the mud. Some of the attestants were
well known and of good standing. Many of the scientists con-
tinued to point out that if fish and mammals hibernated there
was no reason to believe that birds did not or could not.

Most superstitions have vanished, if slowly. We no longer
accept the idea that swallows avoid certain places cursed by
the gods. Nobody believes that the bodies of swallows are
of value for making love potions or for use in auguries. Few
could be persuaded that the birds ever went yearly to a
sacred island and worked for three days to save it from the
floods. Nor do we accept, offhand, Pliny's statement that
swallows are never preyed upon by the hawks, for we know
that at least two English birds, the hobby and the merlin,
do take them.

As men went into the field, much of the information col-
lected was local which could be compared to that which I
might gather if this district had been continually isolated
from others. If I were fortunate enough to watch the arrival
and departure of the seven species of swallows which visited
this area, I would not know where they came from or where
they were going. I could learn much about the four species
which remained to nest: the sites they chose, the date when
nesting began, the number of broods raised, the number of
young in each brood, the time they left the nest, and their
early behavior. I would find that if I blew small feathers
from my hand during the nesting season, the barn and tree
swallows would swoop down and pick them up before they
struck the ground. I would be able to recognize the young
birds by their unsteady flight and would often see the old
birds feed them on the wing. I might make thousands of such
limited observations, but I would have little opportunity to

258 Union Bay

study altitudes in which migration was conducted, whether
it was by day or night, whether the birds fed as they flew,
whether their flight was hurried and conducted on the en-
ergy of the fat which they had stored previous to the start
of the trip.

The progress of science has altered these conditions. Much
research has been done in the field and the laboratory. The
data thus obtained have been checked and rechecked. The
results of widely scattered workers are continually being con-
solidated. Information formerly known only to the man who
had gathered it is now available in manuscript or printed
form or in lectures and is constantly put to use. Special
monographs on the physiology, anatomy, and histology of
one bird are often available. Lengthy life histories of species
have been prepared. Arthur C. Bent's Life Histories of North
American Birds already includes eighteen volumes and sev-
eral more will be required to complete the series. The litera-
ture of ecology and of all kindred subjects has increased
rapidly.

In terms of the four swallows which nested in the marsh,
this means that it is no longer necessary, as in the early days
of field watching, to rely solely on one's own experience and
to suffer from the lack of it. Comparatively speaking, the life
histories of the swallows are fairly complete so that, for ex-
ample, I can obtain from the available literature such details
as range, winter residence, migration and arrival dates,
plumages at different ages and seasons. I was astonished to
learn that the cliff swallow, which I had known only in a
more or less local manner, actually ranges over much of
North and South America, going as far north as Alaska and
as far south as Argentina. I can compare my own nest ob-
servations with those of others living in widely separated
places who have also investigated location, speed of build-
ing, material used, number of eggs in the nest, and variation
in marking. I pick up information on the time when the eyes

Sky Sweepers 259

open, the beginning of preening, probable flight distance per
day, and feeding habits. There are many actual experiences
of field observers to verify or contradict my own field find-
ings. And if I wish to go further, I can always consult the
writings of men who have specialized in fields in which I am
personally interested.

My research need not be limited to the swallows of the
marsh. The literature discusses the members of the swallow
family all over the world. I can find how widely the birds
are distributed and much about their habits, size, and speed.
There will be big birds and very little ones, and highly col-
ored species which add so much interest from a popular
standpoint If I want foreign information on technical prob-
lems, it will be available, often in greater detail than in the
writings of Americans in the same fields.

We have made considerable progress since Aristotle wrote
about swrallows. Man, not content with blindly following the
lore of the ancients, and freed from the shackles of dog-
matic religion, has struck directly at the core of truth. By
intelligent observation and use of the scientific method, facts
are discovered and their significance recognized. Careful
field studies, detailed analyses of the natural environment,
expeditions of trained personnel, publication of findings, bird
banding, and the building up of specimens collected for
lab orator}7 study— all have played their part in our advance
of knowledge so that a few tattered legends have been re-
placed by a mass of concrete facts.

It all sounds delightfully final until I raise questions like
this: We know many things about migration, but exactly
what causes it? Much is known about the return of swallows
to the identical spots which they occupied the year before,
but precisely how do they do it? And when no eager hands
are raised to answTer and explain, I feel that, perhaps after
all, we are still a long way from the solution of the real
problems.

Wild Fowl and Men

22

f&&J*s*+ I VISITED GAD WALL COVE THREE

weeks after my pigskin-dowitcher experience. The little bay
had lost its tidiness, for the cattails and rushes had yielded
to the fall winds and rains and had begun to slip into irreg-
.ular clumps. But if the primness was gone, the pleasing color
change compensated for it. Many of the loosestrife leaves
had assumed shades of brown and red which suggested the
huckleberry foliage of the high country. Perhaps half the
cattails were a dark tan. The massed vegetation had become
a heather mixture— pleasing browns, reds, and greens, softly
blended.

The gadwalls were visiting the marsh on their fall migra-
tion. Five of them watched my approach, all riding high:
the males, slim-gray and black-rumped; the females, brown
and inconspicuous. Almost before I raised my binoculars the
birds left the water, forcing their whole strength into the
action of lifting. They quartered as they rose and then, with
full speed acquired, they straightened out and moved down-
wind toward the south end of the marsh. There was no hesi-
tation, none of the uncertain flight of the grebes, the bitterns,
and the coots; instead, they displayed immediate reaction
and made a speedy and decisive exit.

260

Wild Fowl and Men

261

/^ . r%^

■^•wye^

I suspect that it is well that wild fowl have developed
this alertness and speed, for they have never been free of
severe hunting pressure. Wherever there are coast lines,
lakes, and sedgy rivers, the birds have congregated, and
wherever they have collected they have been preyed upon
by hawks, owls, and other birds, by foxes, minks, by men,
and other mammal predators. The tremendous extent of the
predation indicates how highly their fat and tasty bodies are
esteemed. Even the pike, pickerel, bass, and turtles are said
to take the young whenever possible.

In the marsh shooting is prohibited, but ducks are not en-
tirely free from molestation. Boys with airguns or small cali-
ber rifles occasionally run wild and shoot at everything they
see. Rarely the birds are poached by men in boats. They
take one or two shots into a flock, pick up the victims, and
leave immediately. Traps set for muskrats and baited with

262 Union Bay

apple are deadly when ducks are hungry. Slingshots destroy
a few of the tamer mallards. In addition to these routine
types, other methods occasionally turn up. Such was the
device I discovered one day when I followed a new route
into the cattails and toward the willows. At first I did not
know whether it had been made by boat, beaver, or musk-
rat, but when I forced my canoe over the wet path, I found
a V-shaped fence of low poultry netting covered at intervals
with vegetation to camouflage it. The netting on either side
terminated so as to leave a ten-inch opening at the point of
the V. Above this opening I could see a cord hanging from
the bent branch of a willow and terminating in a noose
which hung in front of the passage.

It was a snare— the first which I had discovered in the
marsh. Somebody had considered it a quiet and efficient way
of getting ducks, and as there is nothing exciting about snar-
ing birds, it was quite evident that the trapper was primarily
after food. Perhaps the builder was a foreigner who had
trapped birds before leaving a country where snaring and
liming and netting were considered not only legitimate but
thrifty and respectable. Perhaps a boy who had read ac-
counts of such devices used by the early pioneers had fash-
ioned the device. It might have been made by a sailor or
miner who had lived near the ' Alaska Indians and had
watched them snare birds, a practice in which even the
youngest boys excelled.

A song sparrow flitted among the lower parts of the cat-
tails and watched me as I looked at the snare. My move-
ments were slow, I made little disturbance, and if the bird
had any fear it was more than overbalanced by its curiosity.
I found this species everywhere in the marsh, and usually
displaying a considerable amount of interest when I stopped.

I was interested, too. Except for the substitution of wire
netting for a fence of woven twigs or brush and a machine-
made cord for a strip of hide or twisted fiber, it might have

Wild Fowl and Men 263

been made many thousands of years ago, for I suppose the
snare is probably one of the oldest methods of taking game.
What could have been simpler for primitive man than to
twist fibers or grasses into a line, to fashion a running loop,
and then to sit and tighten the noose about creatures which
Would not allow a close enough approach so that he could
seize them with his hands or strike them with his club. Fish,
birds, or mammals could be taken that way by a patient
Watcher. Then, someday, an impatient hunter must have
realized the possibility of fastening the line in such a way
that the animal would spring a device which would tighten
the loop and make constant attendance unnecessary. And
surely even a Neanderthal or Piltdown man might compre-
hend that a fence of brush would lead the creature to the
noose. Nothing more could be done to improve the snare;
the results would be bettered only by skill in placing the
contrivance. I could look back and think of myself as an awk-
ward, stooping, long-haired, and dirty man, clothed in an
animal skin and parting the cattails with my club, as I looked
through the growth to see if any fowl or muskrat had wan-
dered into my trap. I suspect that the picture would have
been much the same whether in the fens of Great Britain,
the tundra of Alaska, or the marshy lakes of Africa, for all
hunting tribes must have taken to snares as naturally as to
clubs and spears. The special hunting devices originated by
tribes and nations all over the world probably came later
than the simple snare. I watched the one in the marsh, but
it was never sprung and the vegetation covered it at last.
What a documentary film could have been made of the
methods of taking waterfowl that I had seen or read about!
Scenes might be reconstructed to show the Egyptians hunt-
ing with their spears, using their cats, one of their sacred
animals, as retrievers. The film could portray the falconry of
the Middle Ages with all the pomp and brilliance of that
ceremony, the horsemen of the South American pampas

264 Union Bay

throwing their whirling bolos, the boating drives which
ended in the slaughter of thousands of birds on the lakes of
Mexico, Eskimos standing in the fog on high points along
the spring flights of the birds, using large handnets to trans-
form magnificent flight into crumpled inertness. Grim but
revealing would have been the summer drives when the wild
fowl could not fly, the young because they were too young,
the mature because they were moulting. Mighty was the
slaughter and more terrific the waste because only the most
desirable birds were saved. More easily recorded from a
photographic standpoint would have been the skills of the
individual: the snaring, the shooting with bow and arrow,
or the killing with the spear, or ancient sling. Then there was
the netting and the basket traps. Most picturesque of all was
the approach on the surface of the water of the moving
basket which covered the head of the hunter. When he got
within reach, the hidden man would seize the unsuspecting
birds, pull them beneath the surface, and wring their necks.
These were but a few of the methods, some long aban-
doned, some still in use, that might be photographed. I grew
quite enthusiastic until I thought of the difficulties in the
way— of the distances to be covered, the necessity of being
on hand at exactly the proper time to view the methods of
the present, and of the complications of reproducing those
of the past. Most of the ancient scenes would conflict with
the game laws. For example, the taking of ducks with fal-
cons could be done only by special permission, if at all, and
the conservationist would probably regard it as an unjus-
tifiable sacrifice to history. And as for the wild fowl them-
selves: they doubtless would be unable to derive much satis-
faction from the thought that having their legs snapped by
flying bolos or their necks twisted by a man wading with his
head under a basket would be a considerable contribution
to the pictorial representation of hunting methods of the
past. I decided without further reflection that no individual

Wild Fowl and Men 265

could properly attempt such a task and I must stick to the
written word.

But the great number of methods of taking wild fowl did
indicate then importance in the economy of all nations. Wild
fowl must have been a considerable part of every larder
when weapons were poor and large animals difficult to ob-
tain. I imagined ancient man, after a vain attempt to kill a
wild ox, slipping down to the marsh in order to get ducks
or geese for his meal. Hunting was a means of filling one's
belly and not a sport, and wild fowl were numerous and un-
afraid. In many places they remained the year around. Eggs
could be hunted by women and children. The plumage fur-
nished material for ceremonial purposes, for decorations, and
for warmth. There were many reasons why the hunting of
wild fowl through the centuries had been continuous and
heavy. Were the birds successfully meeting the pressure?

Survival to the middle of the nineteenth century was not
difficult and could be easily understood. The great nesting
places of the ducks were undisturbed, the migration routes
full of undrained marshes and good feeding grounds. Hunt-
ing pressure was that of a comparatively small population,
weapons lacked modern killing power, and transportation
was limited and difficult. Many ducks were killed yearly, but
it is quite certain that the annual crop of birds successfully
offset the loss.

The view of the marsh in front of me did not indicate that
there was any great present shortage of wild fowl. I saw a
flock of several hundred baldpates in the center of the bay.
They had come in during the past ten days and would re-
main in about the same numbers (although individuals
would come and go) until the last of November. Scattered
over the bay were other common duck visitors.

The birds about me fed contentedly. Superficially, there
were no signs that the hunting season had begun and that
in other marshes death had come to many waterfowl. I was

266 Union Bay

reminded of it when I flushed some green-winged teal and
all but one of them flew away with the incredibly high speed
of this smallest and fastest of the ducks. The one bird tried
but could not rise. It had been the victim of a shot and had
made its way to this little refuge. Its efforts to dive failed,
but as the canoe approached the bird managed to splash its
way to the cattail cover.

I had watched this scene yearly. No need for me to look
at the hunting schedule: the state of the marsh told me when
the season had opened. Already there were four other crip-
ples: two pintails and two mallards. I saw them, as I had
seen wounded birds in other years, alone, moving slowly
along the edge of the cattails or resting in the weeds or on a
projecting log. They seldom strayed far from the place where
I first saw them. A few yards or a few rods, the distance
being determined by their physical condition, was the limit
of their boundaries. I came to know them by their location,
and each week I watched for the mallard near the willows
or the pintail close to the tule wren's nest. When I observed
that the patient was improving, the knowledge added much
to my day's pleasure. Twice when I missed a bird I searched
and found its body in the reeds.

Most impressive of all the marsh patients was a snow
goose which arrived one October afternoon when the Cas-
cade Range had just begun to appear through the dissolving
mists and when the mo.rsh lay sodden after a three days' rain.
The bird flew from behind a little point of cattails from
which the canoe had startled it. As it flew I could see that
the flight was labored and that there was something wrong
with the beat of its powerful wings. A break in the wing
action, the failure of a gallant attempt to maintain elevation,
and the bird struck the water like a weight instead of a liv-
ing creature, and then struggled away into the twilight.
Wounded, it had sought sanctuaiy in the marsh.

I purposely tried to keep away from it on my next trip,

Wild Fowl and Men 267

but a week later I flushed it accidentally from some mare's-
tail which lay thick in a little cove. It got up but only with
difficulty. This time it did not fly alone; a smaller bird, a
cackling goose, rose with it, and the two strangely contrast-
ing geese, one white-bodied except for black wing tips, and
the other brownish and black with white patches, flew off
together and landed in the open water of the bay.

An unusual association began. These birds kept so close
together that, whether they were feeding, flying, landing,
or swimming, I never saw one without the other. Each week
I expected to find that they had left, for in this small area
geese had never remained for more than a week at a time.
Invariably I added them to my list of guests present. Winter
moved in but the birds did not move out. They faced the
cold weather of December when thin ice formed on all of
the channels. I found them side by side after our only severe
January snow. By this time I could approach more closely
than earlier in the season. They seldom flushed but simply
paddled off as fast as the situation demanded. Why did they
remain? The snow goose now flew straight, but perhaps it
lacked the strength for a long flight. But what held the cack-
ling goose? Why this curious attachment? Sympathy? Loy-
alty? Are the members of this group naturally associative? I
wonder. February came and the nearby hillsides began to
turn green. Then the mare's-tail popped out in places where
the water was shallow. Spring had come to this marsh hotel
and with its coming the geese had flown.

It was not only the wounded birds that sought the pro-
tection of the marsh. Canadian and white-fronted geese,
whistling swans and other strangers, which apparently had
been hunted and were unable to find resting grounds free of
shotguns, came and fed greedily. They either ignored me or
they would paddle ahead of the canoe and snatch a leaf in
the same way that a cayuse snatches a bite here and there as
it follows the trail. One little flock of ruddy ducks landed so

268 Union Bay

close that their spray sprinkled the canoe, and they imme-
diately began to eat the floating duckweed in great and noisy
gulps. When I observed their hunger I began to realize the
value of these small protected spots. My early conservation
ideas included refuges of thousands of acres. I have since
learned that any place, regardless of size, will be used by
ducks if they can feed unmolested. The action of these birds
and of many others demonstrates that at times these little
sanctuaries are desperately needed.

I continued my trip and approached a flock of pintails.
They paid little attention to my slow progress. They had not
been in the marsh long and would go soon, for they were
among the birds that used the place only temporarily. I did
not know exactly where they had been raised, for the pintail
breeds along the long coastal strip north of us to upper
Alaska. I did know that, like all ducks, they had been subject
to predation from the day the first egg had been laid. If the
nests happened to be near the villages or camps of the na-
tives, the children had raided them constantly and had con-
tinued to harry the young until they left. And there were
the coyotes, the foxes, and other mammals which kept fat
by locating the eggs or young. The predatory birds would
share in the feast, and patrolling gulls,, skuas, jaegers, and
ravens would dash down upon any unprotected nest. And
there was the hazard of storm and drought so that the mor-
tality during the nesting has been estimated as more than
fifty per cent— few observers have thought it less.

I would have liked to know the history of the flight that
brought these pintails from their nesting grounds. Had they
been raised near the Yukon River or farther south? Was it a
leisurely or fast journey? Had the birds been raided by the
bold duck hawks which stationed themselves on rocky head-
lands and sallied forth like the pirates of old to take toll from
those which passed? Had they found plenty to eat or had

Wild Fowl and Men 269

the attempts to drop into good feeding areas been repelled
by hidden gunners?

The birds swam gracefully about, now and then up-ending
for food and occasionally uttering their soft calls. Not more
than a city block away a tug passed through the canal on
the way to the airfield. In the opposite direction I could
hear the football coach as he megaphoned his commands to
the squad on the practice field. From the tone of his voice I
judged that he thought some improvement could be reasona-
bly demanded. The sun grew warm enough so that I could
take off my coat as I watched the birds. No need to confuse
them with any other ducks: their long and graceful necks
striped with white on the sides, their sharp pointed tails,
and their trim appearance instantly separated them from any
other wild fowl which visited the marsh. When they reached
under water for food, their tails projected like a cardboard
triangle. Nearby were coots and a pair of pied-billed grebes
and close to the cattails stood a great blue heron— unafraid
wildlife in the midst of a city.

As I watched the pintails I thought: they had better take
a good rest for they will need it after they leave here. They
will find very few places like this. A small powerboat cut
closer than the pintails liked. They rose in a little flock and
moved to shallower water where they resumed feeding.
Would this temporary freedom from interference make them
less likely to inspect the safety of their next resting place? I
feared that it might. Yet they had much need for wariness,
for they would face the peak of the hunting season. What
were the problems of waterfowl which were heavily hunted?
I remembered a remark I had once heard: if you want to
understand the working of the whole, it is sometimes better
to consider the working of its parts. I changed my question:
what is the typical history of a little group like the nine pin-
tails feeding before me?

I could easily visualize what might happen at the next

270 Union Bay

stop, or the next, or the one after that. They would follow
the historic route of their ancestors and at the end of a long
flight would sight a lush spot. They would turn toward it
and, with food and shelter just ahead, would set their wings
in that magnificent approach so typical of the pintail-wind
whistling through the motionless feathers. The water would
be a few feet below them, the flight almost ended. Move-
ment would begin in the tules, gun barrels would lift and
blast. The bewildered flock would change direction and veer
away. Two or three of the nine birds would be left behind,
and while a dog leaped overboard to retrieve them, the men
would congratulate each other on the excellence of their
shooting. And it was splendid shooting, good retrieving, and
fine sport for all the participants except the ducks. Where
can they go next?

As the pintails move along they may find small havens
where they can stop> but the best marshes— the ones which,
in the undisturbed periods of the fly ways, welcomed and
cared for tremendous concentrations of wild fowl— are now
lined with shooting clubs. The less productive spots are occu-
pied by private shacks, and all the other areas which promise
even fair sport will be filled with guns and hunters tucked
away in blinds. How will our ducks react to such conditions?
Will they have learned anything of wariness, or will they
simply be dazed by the bombardment? When I think that I
am overemphasizing the situation I recall the many millions
of ducks which are taken during the hunting season.

There was no sentimentality in my speculation over the
possible fate of the pintails. I have no objection to hunting if
it is properly limited. Practicality has forced me, as it has
forced most others, to accept in a more or less modified form
the theory that man, self -assumed dictator, is entitled to dis-
pose of all the lower forms of life as he pleases. I have heard
all the arguments about harvesting the wild fowl crop and
of the inalienable right of the sportsman to hunt and to make

Wild Fowl and Men 271

his own rules governing the shooting. So long as the prin-
ciple of harvesting only the surplus is followed I do not
complain, but, in view of our rapidly decreasing wildlife, I
consider it the right of all to speculate whether present shoot-
ing regulations will insure a continuance of the wildlife
supply from which the annual crop comes.

Some of my hunting friends would have me believe that
the hunting season is merely a friendly arrangement between
them and the ducks. I really think they believe it, but I am
quite sure that the ducks do not. I tell the men that while
it may be considered justifiable, it is nothing but the preda-
tion of the human mammal upon wild fowl and that all the
seeming care lavished upon the birds is simply to increase
the possibilities of future predation. The contrasts in our
hunting code are curious— our wild fowl receive loving at-
tention in three periods of their existence, but in the fourth
and last are subjected to the bloodiest gantlet ever run by
living animals. They get a continually increasing amount of
care in their winter quarters, they are watched and assisted
in all practical ways on the breeding grounds, they are
guarded by game wardens on their northward flight, but
when nesting is over and they start south, it is a different
stoiy.

Then they receive the same treatment the Romans gave
their gladiators. Rome furnished its stadium performers with
kindness and luxury during the preliminary training period.
The men lived well, they were visited by lords and ladies
who admired their skill and strength and acclaimed them
heroes. But all of this was forgotten when the gladiators
strode into the arena: this was the time for which the spec-
tators had waited, when the payment for the tenderness of
preparation would be demanded, when the final settlements
would be made.

Duck hunters recognize the needs of the ducks. They are
all agreed that southward-bound birds must have food, rest,

272 Union Bay

and shelter if sufficient breeding stock is to be available in
the spring. On the other hand, the hunting season is the
period of harvest, the pay-off. Consequently the hunters of
each district favor refuges if they are not in their vicinity,
but north or south of them. They want no local protection
for ducks passing in the hunting season. What have wild
fowl been raised for, if not to shoot?

I did not have to be an expert on botulism, migration, or
the diseases of concentration to understand the main trends
affecting the pintails before me. All of the four phases of
their life had to prosper in order for them to perpetuate their
kind. They must have proper wintering grounds, successful
spring migrations, adequate nesting areas, and a return
migration route which would insure the passage of enough
birds to provide sufficient breeding stock. Failure in any of
these factors imperiled future supplies. What was the effect
of modern civilization on these factors?

I could see improvement in only one aspect. The prohibi-
tion of spring shooting had made certain the passage of a
greater percentage of birds on the way to their breeding
grounds, although, of course, the number of birds is only a
fraction of the four hundred million which was the estimated
population in 1850.

In all other phases I could see only, deterioration. The
winter grounds continue to shrink because of the drainage
and improving of farms, the advance of towns, the improve-
ment of resort sections, and the determined pressure of
ranchers who resent the damage done by the huge concen-
trations of wintering birds. The northern breeding grounds
have been attacked by droughts, which rendered whole dis-
tricts useless for years. The number of wild fowl which nor-
mally nest in the vicinity of farms has been steadily cut
down. In my own case I could think of a dozen fair-sized
marshes in the area where I was raised. All of them have
been drained. Almost everybody I talk to has made similar

Wild Fowl and Men 273

statements. The restoration of some northern nesting areas
has been well done, but the area reclaimed is so small a pro-
portion of the total that the effect is almost negligible. Drain-
age, ditching, pollution, and dams make great changes. It is
certain that land devoted more and more to the use of man
cannot be expected to raise waterfowl crops as it did when
it was in its natural state.

In the meantime, what about the pintails? I can merely
speculate on their progress. And yet it is of the greatest im-
portance that enough of them and those in other flocks get
through. In their successful passage lies the future of the
species. Without them there will be no activity in the nesting
grounds. The winter will still be ahead of them and it too
will take its toll. Only a small fraction of the millions of birds
which winged south in fall will be left to begin the migra-
tion in spring.

Even without hunting the trend of wild fowl is downward.
Steady decrease must be expected. Everybody who has
studied the disappearance of once-plentiful forms of wildlife
recognizes this. The predation of man increases this cer-
tainty, for it is different from the predation of other mam-
mals. It is well recognized that the relation between wildlife
predators and the preyed-upon tends to become stabilized
so that the latter continues to exist. When the preyed-upon
are greatly reduced in numbers, the predators lack sufficient
food and must leave or die. Either result reduces the pressure
on the prey and enables them to increase in numbers again.
But there is no such relief from the pressure of the predator,
man. The condition continues, unless man has the foresight
to realize the position in which the victim is placed.

Man seldom has displayed this foresight. Natural causes
finished the heath hen, the great auk, the passenger pigeon,
the Eskimo curlew, but it was man who so reduced them in
numbers that the species fell easy prey to catastrophes which
it might otherwise have met without difficulty.

274 Union Bay

What is man doing to the waterfowl population? Ducks,
geese, and swans have withstood the attacks of man since
history began— what changes have occurred that might make
me think that the birds could not successfully withstand
man's attacks in the future? Ducks are decreasing in number,
man's predation increasing. Has man, in the face of curtailed
breeding grounds, smaller winter areas, and limited migra-
tion facilities, accepted the situation by reducing the pres-
sure on the wild fowl?

I thought that an examination of the duck stamp figures
might answer that question. In 1935, when duck stamps were
first issued, approximately 600,000 were sold, all to hunters,
with the exception of a few purchased by stamp collectors
and nonhunters who wished to indicate their approval of the
movement. By 1940 the number had risen to 1,100,000. Al-
though complete figures have not been received, present in-
dications are that the sales for the season of 1950 will reach
or probably exceed 2,000,000. The national kill for 1947 was
estimated at 12,000,000 birds, for 1948 it was 17,000,000, and
for 1949 the estimate was 18,500,000. Can any logical think-
ing justify a conclusion that our rapidly shrinking wild fowl
winter, migration, and breeding districts can stand the in-
creasing intensity of such pressure? I find no grounds for
such optimism. I remember that in 1937 the waterfowl
population dropped below 40,000,000. 1 have noted the prac-
tical exhaustion of the ring-necked pheasant supply in the
Dakotas— a supply which friends who annually hunted there
had assured me was inexhaustible. I know that modern man
can build rapidly but there has never been a time when effi-
cient production could keep up with mass destruction. I
realized that factors other than man's hunting affected the
wild fowl supply. These factors constantly closed in and
grew in importance just as the pressure of the city constantly
closed in on the marsh. How, then, could man erect an al-
most continuous wall of shotguns between the breeding and

Wild Fowl and Men

275

wintering grounds and expect to maintain a continuous sup-
ply of ducks sufficient to meet the demand?

The pintails continued their feeding as I turned the canoe
toward the float. They will have flown before my next marsh
inspection. If things go well, next year some of them may
call again at about the same time of year and in the same
location. I wondered if I would ever fail to see these fine
birds among the marsh rushes.

One of the factors needed to insure a continuous supply,
I thought, was to recognize the imperative need for a series
of "stepping stones," or as the air pilots would say, "refuel-
ing and regrouping bases," between the breeding and winter-
ing grounds. Regardless of their size, a combination of such
places would be of great value.

Waterfowl can be perpetuated only if hunting controls
squarely meet the facts. This survival of the breeding stock
is of the first importance, I hope that the hunters and con-
servationists, whose ways are so different, but who are
equally interested in the long-range preservation of our wild
fowl, will take effective steps toward that end. Otherwise, a
series of those great natural catastrophes which sometimes
appear may attack the shrinking breeding stock and reduce
our wild fowl below the possibility of replacement.

**£-\

r'i

V

Who Killed Cock Robin?

23

^^/^ ONE FALL MORNING WHEN I PAD-

dled along the marsh edge, I noticed a moving object on a
log inside a little bay made by the recession of the vegeta-
tion. When I quietly forced my canoe into the open water
surrounded by a brown ring of old and drooping cattails, I
saw, much to my astonishment, a marsh hawk feeding on a
bird which proved to be a green-winged teal. Once before I
had encountered one as it started to tear open a coot. I had
dismissed that incident without much thought. It was the
first time I had ever seen the marsh hawk with a bird victim,
although I had seen them beat the wet meadows day after
day where the plentiful supply of ducks below thern paid no
attention to their passing. But this was the second case in the
marsh, and I asked myself if in this area the marsh hawk
is to be considered a regular predator on birds. Many people
would have thought this second killing was all the evidence
needed, but I had watched the bird too many times to be
sure. For example, I saw the Cooper hawk much more infre-
quently, but I had watched it dash into flocks of small birds.
Though the marsh was always full of larger birds in fall, I
had never seen a marsh hawk attack one. Another thing

276

Who Killed Cock Robin?

277

puzzled me: a coot could easily have been taken, but how
could this slow-moving harrier have struck down the green-
winged teal, the fastest-flying of all our ducks? Perhaps the
teal had been wounded and had sought a resting place in
the area where, unable to move rapidly and perhaps nearly
dead, it had fallen easy prey to a bird which, in a country
where rodents were protected by plenty of cover, had found
a meal in this stricken and easily captured victim. Possibly
the duck had a broken wing inflicted by rock-throwing en-
thusiasts who frequently stood on the bank and used the
marsh birds as targets. At any rate, and regardless of the
manner in which it was taken, the marsh hawk was ripping
it to pieces with its powerful bill. The responsibility for its
death, in the absence of proof to the contrary, was chargeable
to this brown-bodied and white-rumped creature which
reared itself so fiercely above its victim.

278 Union Bay

I checked the economic status of the bird that night. Au-
thorities practically agreed in considering this hawk of much
value as a destroyer of small rodents and mammals, its prin-
cipal fare. But all of them reported that, while feeding its
nestlings, it is a frequent or regular predator on birds. The
artist and ornithologist, Allan Brooks, reported it as "the
most destructive bird in America to our marsh nesting water
fowl for at least three months of the year." The general opin-
ion appeared to be that its value as a predator on mammals
outweighs its damage as a temporary predator on wild fowl
and other game. This type of summary is accepted by few
laymen for the reason that the bird often performs its bene-
ficial acts in one territory and its harmful ones in another,
and for that reason is known to local residents as being en-
tirely good or entirely bad. Indeed, I am sure that the custom
among the general public always is to regard a bird or
mammal in this manner, the judgment being almost always
based on its conduct in the one district in which the observer
lives. Many hunters, on the other hand, consider all hawks
and owls harmful and seldom admit that any are beneficial.

I think this attitude goes far back. When I was a very
small boy I read much about birds and beasts in fairy stories
and fables. I found that the animals were rated good or bad,
the bad ones being especially bad, and the good ones un-
believably good. The bad ones played despicable tricks upon
the good wild creatures. In these stories the fox was always
cunning and unscrupulous, the wolf hungry and mean, the
jackal low and treacherous. As for that archer, the sparrow
who confessed to killing Cock Robin, he was so entirely set
apart from the realm of good citizens in my juvenile mind
that I never passed a sparrow in a vacant lot without recall-
ing the miserable crime of its ancestor.

Many of us change such opinions as we grow older, but I
am amazed at the extent that these prejudices still hold good.
Most wildlife still wears a tag which expresses the popular

Who Killed Cock Robin? 279

opinion: the eagle is regarded as a child stealer in spite of
the fact that a friend of mine, who has for fifteen years in-
vestigated such charges, has never been able to substantiate
a claim of child injury. The wren is considered a confiding
and altogether sweet bird, although it is often extremely
quarrelsome and domineering and has been known to pierce
the eggs of its neighbors with its bill when nesting competi-
tion is too severe. The hawks, even those which are of much
value in the elimination of rodents, are "vermin," the name
given to mammals difficult to control, and deserving of ex-
termination. The owl is a murderer while the squirrels, fre-
quent nest robbers, are highly regarded. The coyote, an
inveterate mouser, receives no credit. In the marsh the single
pair of kingfishers which sometimes appears is hated by
sportsmen, who would welcome their elimination. Wildlife
is classed everywhere in an entirely arbitrary and often un-
fair manner.

It is not a new thing, this attitude toward wildlife. A
friend, a collector of old books, recently loaned me an Eng-
lish publication of 1841 written by a man named Hone and
called The Year Book. Among its many miscellaneous items
is one which says:

Bullfinches return to our gardens in February. The mischief effected
by them is trifling. It was supposed that they deprived us of a larger
portion of the buds of our fruit trees. It is now an ascertained fact
that they only select such buds as contain the larva of an insect: thus
rendering us a kindness by destroying an embryo, or colony of injurious
creatures.

We can imagine the history of this bird: first maligned and
persistently persecuted because it ate the buds which, if
unmolested, would have produced fine fruit; afterward
praised and protected because the buds it ate were worm-
infected and would have been of great harm to the tree.
Formerly maligned, it then became the pampered dweller
in the English hedgerows.

280 Union Bay

This seemed to settle definitely the status of the bird, but
out of curiosity I consulted one of the best English works
on ornithology (written a century later). The writers make
no mention of the diseased fruit buds and give a distressing
account of the bird's food habits: chiefly buds of fruit trees
in spring (pear, apple, plum, gooseberry, currant, etc.), far
more being destroyed than eaten. What are we to think now?
Could it be that the report of the bird's eating only infested
buds was a mistaken one, or has spraying become so effi-
cient that the birds have been forced to abandon selectivity
and must eat the good buds minus the animal flavor? I regret
that the book made no other comment on the bird's eco-
nomic status.

I have placed the local predation of the marsh hawk in the
same category. I have watched it beat back and forth, flying
low, with strong steady wing beats, its long body and white
rump patch instantly identifying it. I have not watched it
feed again nor have I seen it stoop at a victim. I have not
passed any dead bird which showed evidence of having been
attacked by hawks, nor have I seen any of the scattered
feathers and other tell-tale signs of a hawk's feeding. Al-
though I have no certain proof, I feel that the marsh hawk
is not a bird predator in our area and that the coot and teal
must have been crippled when taken. ,

Predation in the marsh and elsewhere will never cease.
The manner in which it is practiced does much to bring
about the prevalent opinion that an animal is all good or all
bad. Much predation goes on quietly in the dark or far from
human habitations or under conditions which people seldom
see. Sometimes nests are raided and the young killed, with-
out the knowledge of nearby residents. Eggs are taken from
the henhouse by animals so clever that only the diminishing
number indicates that theft is going on. Young chickens and
even suckling pigs can be removed without disturbance, and
often the owner has no idea of exactly when or how the

Who Killed Cock Robin? 281

theft occurred. When finally discovered, there can be no
definite placing of blame but only a vague idea that a coyote,
fox, hawk, or dog is responsible for the destruction. For
example, at one time a mallard nested within a few yards
of the canoehouse. I saw the fourteen eggs which the nest
contained on a Friday evening. The next morning when I
passed, the hen was gone and the eggs had disappeared.
There were no signs of tracks about the nest, no shells, no
evidence. If the young had come off, they would have been
close to the nest or in it. They were nowhere to be seen. I
never found out what had taken them, although the canoe-
house manager was sure that the rats were responsible. Such
cases often happen.

There is another type of predation which immediately
makes itself known, and as quickly brings about the demand
for the elimination of the offender. I refer to the appearance
of the raiding "hen-hawk" which boldly enters the hen yard
and then flies away with its victim while the rest of the flock
sets up a squawking, which brings the poultry owner out to
watch the tragedy. There is the wandering otter which stops
at the farm pond and scoops up a fish while the women of
the house wish that John were there with his gun. Then
there are visits of raccoons which show little fear and im-
pudently take their prey when it pleases them. The animal
may never again appear on the scene, the total loss from this
"showy" predation may be inconsiderable, but from then on
the offending creatures and their distant relatives are marked,
and unseen losses invariably charged to them. The destruc-
tion may be the result of the predation of other animals,
hidden and unsuspected but constantly present in the area
in large numbers. Predation is one field in which it certainly
does not pay to advertise.

In our marsh hotel the mallards bring off broods of young
varying in numbers from three to fourteen. People who reg-
ularly canoe learn to recognize some of the broods by their

282 Union Bay

location, size, and the actions of the hens. The canoeists
watch with concern the shrinkage in the numbers of the
ducklings. Day by day the losses continue until the broods
of twelve are reduced to perhaps five or six, and the hen
which began with three will be swimming with one lone
baby trailing her. At long intervals a mink will be seen tak-
ing a bird or feeding on one in late evening. The result is
that the mink is held responsible for all the duck losses.
When it is mentioned it is usually referred to as that killer.
Now the mink, which is a member of the weasel family,
is a killer, which under certain conditions may be chiefly
responsible for the mortality among young waterfowl. Bu.t
in our marsh I am quite sure that this showy predator is far
outclassed in destruction by another mammal which does no
advertising but which is present in large numbers and, as
baseball slang has it, is always pitching, I refer to the brown
or Norway rat. The presence of sanitary fills in the district
has attracted hordes of them, and although they are trapped
and poisoned continually they have a cunning and adapta-
bility which enables them to exist in unbelievably large
numbers. I have seen them just before dark as they ran about
the marsh margins, on the prowl for nests, young, food
dropped by visitors, sickly or dead fish, or anything of food
value. I have watched them swim short distances as they
cut across an inlet. I have heard that in many places they
climb about in trees. They have been responsible for the de-
struction and total elimination of many ground-nesting birds.
They have spread to every country on the globe. They are
the archpredators, not because they are always more fero-
cious or active than the local predators which they some-
times replace, but because their fertility and adaptability
enable them to meet all conditions. In the marsh their work
is furtive. Now and then I hear that a rat has been seen
feeding on a dead bird, the implication being that some

Who Killed Cock Robin? 283

other creature, probably a mink, had killed it and the rat was
performing a useful duty as a scavenger.

And thus it is that the mink which I have watched for
many years, and which I am quite sure is locally limited to
perhaps a dozen pairs, is charged with the destruction of
the young ducks, while hundreds of brown rats, persistent
destroyers and hunters of eggs and young birds, are entirely
overlooked as predators, though they are feared and hunted
as possible carriers of disease. This attitude toward the mink
is held in spite of the fact that it is a hunter of rodents as
well as of birds. It probably devotes much of its time locally
to the destruction of rats, which are easily taken when young
and which can always be found in the area. The mink is not
a gregarious creature like the rat. Annual trapping for its fur
keeps its numbers small, so that there is little possibility of
an increase in population. There is even reason to believe
that the destruction of rats by mink in the area might possi-
bly assist in the protection of mallards, even though the
mink is known to take them.

This then is an example of the complexities of conserva-
tion. The position of the predator is seldom clear, but varies
with location and conditions. The question of who killed
Cock Robin is not easily solved, and the remedy for such
situations must be applied with care. There are always prob-
lems in the background which can be resolved, if at all,
only by long and careful study. Snap judgments arrived at
by the superficial are often more damaging than leaving the
problem in its status quo. Samuel F. Rathbun, one-time
director of the Washington State Game Department, told me
of a situation, similar to that in our marsh, which occurred
in the eastern part of the state. A good breeding place for
ducks was being constantly raided by what were thought to
be mink, weasels, or other native predators, and a request
was made for a trapper to eliminate the culprits. When the
situation was examined it was found that the losses were

284 Union Bay

due to brown rats which had come from a very small dump
situated at some distance. When the condition was corrected
at its origin, the difficulty stopped, but had remedies been
applied without an investigation much useless expense
would have occurred.

In my years of marsh observation I have seen few cases of
predation or apparent predation which were clear and defi-
nite enough to justify immediate action. For example, the
crows come to the marsh each spring, and knowing their
sharpness and ability to take advantage of all food oppor-
tunities, I thought for some time that the birds annually
made a practice of raiding the nests of the tule wrens, the
redwings, and the flycatchers. One day I saw a crow carry-
ing a young tule wren. This isolated case was my only evi-
dence, but I could see no other reason for their activity at
that time of year. Then I noticed that there was a small but
constant mortality among the spawning carp. I saw some
crows feeding on one of the carcasses. Never again did I
witness further predation on the young marsh birds and so,
in spite of many regular visits, I am now uncertain whether
there is regular predation on the young of the small birds,
whether the crows are attracted by the dead carp, or whether
some other kind of food brings them.

Such experience has taught me, as I think it has taught all
unprejudiced observers, that too-hasty action has no place
in wildlife management, and that all possible information
about any creature's habits must be collected and weighed
before any control is considered necessary and decided
upon. A classic story on this matter was told me by one of
the leading authorities in the field. It concerned a bass lake
in the northeastern part of the United States. One of its
owners advanced the seemingly logical theory that, since
the lake contained a limited amount of food available for
fish and since the owners were interested only in bass, the
obvious way to increase their number and size was to elimi-

Who Killed Cock Robin? 285

nate all other kinds and reserve the resources of the lake for
bass only. They proceeded to drain the lake and to remove
all other fish. Two or three years passed and my informant
received a request to visit the lake and to determine, as a
parasitologist, why the bass had become wormy and unfit
for consumption. His first task was to identify the parasite;
his next was to determine which of the fish that had been
removed had controlled the pest. After a series of trials he
discovered which species had been responsible. Convinced
that he had found the source of the trouble he told the lake
owners to put these fish back and their troubles would proba-
bly be over. This proved to be the case. To him, it was one
of many proofs, he said, that the disturbance of natural bal-
ance was often a dangerous and delicate business.

Another case along similar lines involved the harbor seal
on the Pacific Coast, an animal which both the commercial
and sports fishermen consider a great destroyer of salmon.
A few men who had spent their lives studying such situations
were not so sure that the seals were as guilty as charged. One
of them deplored the fact when the state finally put a con-
siderable bounty on harbor seals. When I remarked that
there seemed to be plenty of evidence that the seals took
salmon, he agreed, adding that the salmon had many other
enemies, notably dogfish. What he would like to know, he
declared, was what the harbor seals fed on during the months
when salmon were not numerous on the coast. When I asked
the reason for his curiosity he said that if, during that period,
the seals fed on dogfish and on other predators of the salmon,
it might be that the good they did by reducing these other
predators was far greater than the damage caused by direct
attacks on the salmon. At any rate, he considered this factor
the crux of the whole problem and said that it was possible
that the action taken was not only a financial waste but also,
by relieving the pressure on the other important salmon
predators, was causing a net loss in the salmon crop. He

286 Union Bay

thought that further investigation was necessary to justify
the continuance of the bounty on the harbor seal. Thus what
looks like a problem of simple predation becomes a compli-
cated and doubtful affair.

There is a great advantage in confining much attention to
one small marsh. It lies close to my home. I can see the work-
ings of the whole, which is an advantage not found in a large
area. If desirable, I can visit and revisit it two or three times
in one day. I think of what Browning said in "Pisgah
Sights":

Peering and prying
How I see all of it
Life there, outlying.

If, in my visits, I think much of predation, it is because I
cannot escape it. It is always about me. I paddle my canoe
through a community where predation is the rule and where
all living things are affected by it. The balance of nature of
which we hear so much means, crudely defined, that all
forms of community life have a tendency to adjust them-
selves in an interlocking and smooth-running organization.
In this community, as in most others, many members eat, or
are eaten by other members, or both. The individuals perish
but the species and community move on. The process is con-
stant: a fly, of a sort which resembles a bee, moves over the
surface of a lily pad and lunches on small insects which dot
the leaf. Sated, it departs. There is the soft movement of
wings, the flash of a small bird, and a barn swallow neatly
annexes the fly. Tomorrow some hawk may take the swallow.
Such is the present pattern of marsh life. Almost certainly it
has been the pattern for centuries. Interference with it may
have strange consequences. Spread the new insect killers in
the marsh and all may be well if it is done carefully, but im-
proper methods may involve the elimination of the useful as
well as the injurious, the removal of the insect food of the

Who Killed Cock Robin?

287

birds and their consequent death or departure, the elimina-
tion of insects necessary to effect pollination, and a conse-
quent shrinkage in the productiveness of the area, and in the
number of birds and mammals which are able to maintain
themselves.

Natural communities appear to have a quite efficient way
of operating. The relationships are those of the ages. It
would seem that they should be interfered with as little as
possible and that any attempts to control future killers of
Cock Robin should be made only after changes are proved
to be absolutely necessary and there is certainty that changes
proposed will not be accompanied by undesirable repercus-
sions.

Fog Is a Puzzlement

24

*£* i + TO THOSE WHO WONDER HOW I

could visit a small city marsh so often without exhausting its
freshness and novelty, I will answer that 1 tried to adopt the
photographic device of looking at the subject from new an-
gles. The modern photographer, faced with the problem of
injecting new life into routine assignments comprising the
day's work, found that the presentation of his subject from
above or below, from the side, or with lighting which re-
arranged the shadows and accentuated basic structure, or
with various other techniques, produced spirited and satisfy-
ing results.

I applied similar methods to the marsh by varying my ap-
proach in every possible way. Early and late trips, varying
phases of plant growth, water levels, nesting progress, migra-
tion activity— all affected the surroundings and produced
changes in conditions. One week the area would swarm with
certain insects, although I had noted none the week before.
They had been attracted by the blooming of the marsh
flowers. Or the lowering of the water level would bring in
small flocks of shorebirds. Possibly the cattail heads would
be torn by the strong winds of early winter and white fluff

288

Fog Is a Puzzlement

^ik^

*■ ^

would float like soapsuds on the bay. Decided alterations in
weather would shift the transient population or affect the be-
havior of the residents so that the wary birds of one week
could be approached closely the next, or those which had
been friendly would become shy and zoom away at the first
advance of the canoe. These weather changes were of such
importance that I tried to investigate them until eventually
I felt reasonably well acquainted with all but fog.

I had been out in many light and a few rather dense fogs
but had never visited the area in the totality of a regular
Pacific special. This dense mass of condensed water vapor
had formed off the ocean coast. It had been carried by on-
shore winds through the Strait of Juan de Fuca and into the
Puget Sound basin. Now it lay heavily over the whole area.
And so, that morning, I went to the canoehouse in fog so
thick that I had considerable difficulty in parking my car

290 Union Bay

where it would not be hit by others. I stumbled about among
the canoes and succeeded in rapping my fingers against the
side of the rack. I was nursing them when the manager came
down from his living quarters.

"It's you," he said. "You're the last man I'd expect. I
thought it might be some drunk floundering around and I
wanted to herd him away from the water. You aren't going
out."

"Why not? I've been waiting two weeks for just such a day.
I want to find out what goes on in a soupy fog."

"I think you'll find it quiet, though I guess the animals
have to rustle for grub in bad as well as good weather. Any-
way, you certainly picked the right day. The fog's heavy
enough to hold up a canoe. Be sure you don't leave the lake
and wind up with your outfit on some dry street on the hill."

He launched the canoe and held it close to the float until I
was seated. Then he dropped a couple of pillows on each
side of me and threw over a light blanket and canvas.

"It will keep you dry and warm in this drip," he said. "Stay
out of the main channel or a powerboat might cut you
down."

It required only five paddle strokes to carry me from all
sight of shore. The canoe was surrounded with a circle of
water, black and oily close to me, grayer each foot away,
until it grew more and more unlike water and more like the
enveloping background. The canoe moved in an inverted
bowl, the surface of which was formed by the dehseness of
the fog.

What could I do in this fog? One thing was certain: I
could not rely on sight. The other senses must be my main
source of new impressions. I had not pictured anything quite
so dense. It made me think of a friend of mine. I apologized
for my slow driving one thick morning, and he drawled in
his southern manner:

"Sure is tough. You can't see much and what you do see

Fog Is a Puzzlement 291

don't look natural. I saw a sheep in a Georgia fog once. It
looked so big I thought it was a cow 'til I got real close. Fog
is a puzzlement."

I paddled slowly. The open space which surrounded me
moved with my canoe. My hands became damp, my face
cold, and tiny drops covered the canoe rails. I could dis-
tinguish clearly only the nearest objects. From a standpoint
of visibility I might as well have been on some tramp wind-
jammer out on the high seas.

High seas instantly recalled a boy who had haunted the
swamp one summer. Herbie— twelve, quiet, sturdy, and khaki-
clad— concentrated on ships and the seven seas instead of the
horses and cowboys so popular with his pals. He approached
me frequently in a boat of his own making: an extraordinary
affair fashioned from one piece of a sheet iron sign ( painted
advertising still visible), resembling a bathtub in the center
and with the bow and stern shaped by nailing the sheet ends
to strips of wood. An outrigger, held about three feet from
the hull by sticks projecting from the ends, made it fairly
seaworthy in the sheltered waters of the bay.

To me it was on the level of the hide boats of the ancients,
but Herbie regarded it differently. He saw no defects, never
apologized for its turtle-like slowness or its unpleasant habit
of shipping water when the swells of boats struck it. His fre-
quent references to distant seas indicated that he had read
stories of marine adventure. I am quite sure that he seldom
thought of himself as paddling about the marsh. He fancied
that he was sailing in waters which man had seldom navi-
gated.

That is why the thought of high seas recalled Herbie. A
foggy day would have awakened his imagination and he
would have become a Norseman directing his craft in stormy
waters. His single three-foot paddle would have been the
great steering sweep which he handled at the stern while he
gave orders to the crew as they toiled at the bank of oars.

292 Union Bay

Herbie would have had some such thoughts about the fog,
notwithstanding the shore sounds which would have in-
stantly destroyed any illusions which an older person might
have tried to build up. If the sounds broke into Herbie's con-
sciousness at all, he would have interpreted the shouts of
playing boys as the cries of children begging for rescue, muf-
fled traffic sounds would have been the roar of the seas, and
auto horns the signals sounded to keep the ships together in
the fog.

But there were no such connotations in the sounds I heard:
they were the rattles of loads sliding over the endgates of the
city garbage trucks, the noise of heavy traffic across the
bridge, the bells of the ferry landing on Lake Washington,
the chimes of the University carillon. I envied Herbie his
imagination but, whether for good or bad, I must take my
pleasure from the interpretation of tangible things.

I temporarily dismissed Herbie and continued my slow
progress. I realized, as I had foreseen, that I was testing my
reactions almost entirely without the greatest of the senses-
sight. I had never been so conscious of the pungency of
odors, nor so aware of the little noises of the marsh— the
creaks, the snappings, and the small and indistinct clicks
which came from everywhere. The drops falling from the
paddles, and even the little wavelets at the canoe bow, came
to me as sharp, separate, and distinct sounds. I noted the
smell of smoke from the University stack, the marsh gas
which bubbled to the surface, and the mud displaced in the
shallows by the canoe paddle. And then I heard a definitely
close sound on my left— the noise of spattering water.

One glance in clear weather would have revealed the
cause. Had it been early summer I might have thought that
some nesting bird was making a display to divert my atten-
tion from its nest or young, but this was not possible in
November. Equally unlikely was the pleasant thought that
children might be playing on the beach.

Foe Is a Puzzlement 293

r&

The idea was much more pleasing than the reality which
my approach revealed. A splatter of water, a small head out-
stretched in the midst of the cascade, and a plump dark body
which flapped its wings desperately and with the terror that
only an entangled bird can display.

The trapped creature, a small green-winged teal, tried to
move back but was blocked by the vegetation behind it. It
plunged forward and when it disappeared from sight I knew
why. Attracted by apple bait, it had been caught by the jaws
of a muskrat trap. As the bird moved forward into deeper
water the weight of the metal had submerged it.

I moved the canoe close and without waiting to pull up
my sleeve I reached to my elbow in the icy water, secured
the trap wire, and brought the bird to the surface. Its mad
flapping wet me as thoroughly as if I were in a hard shower.
Then the bird hung limp and exhausted. The frenzy was over.

I suspect that I should have wrung its neck then and there,
for I knew the history of trapped ducks. This bird was only
one of about forty that I had taken from muskrat traps, birds
with bill crushed, wing broken, one or more legs smashed,
or dead. I knew that few had lived, for. I recognized later
their maimed bodies as they floated in the rushes. Few had
any chance to recover. The life of a healthy bird is a con-
stant struggle, and for the partially handicapped there is
usually slow starvation or quick end by rat, mink, or other
predator. I thought that I would examine this bird and free
it only if it was in good condition. When I loosened the trap
jaws a little the bird dropped into the water and instantly
dived. I waited for a short time, then resumed my paddling
with sleeve dripping and stag shirt profusely sprinkled. I
heard the wailing siren of an ambulance; the marsh was not
the only place where tragedy had struck.

The visibility diminished as I groped along in the midst of
the fog which surrounded the canoe. I thought that I knew
my exact location but I grounded within five minutes. I tried

294 Union Bay

to push my way through and soon found myself situated so
that I could neither go forward nor backward. I considered
the matter. I was in the midst of the many exposed little flats
on the west side of the bay. Deep water was near but which
way? Traffic sounds indicated general directions but could
not help me determine the windings of an irregular shore.
Must I wait on this two or three acres of flat until the fog
cleared? This was farcical adventure: to be stuck on a bar
not ten minutes from the canoehouse. I was almost disgusted
until I thought of Herbie. He would have considered it a
time for realistic endeavor. He would have been a Tasman
ashore on the barrier reef of Australia, or a pirate faced with
the problem of getting his ship in shape to meet the tidal"
bore as it approached the South American beach where he
was stranded. If Herbie could welcome such an apparent
impasse, I ought to take my difficulty calmly. I started
straight ahead and aided my progress by throwing my weight
forward as I paddled. I gained a few yards and stopped al-
most breathless beside a small projecting branch. I suppose
there are a thousand such sticks in the marsh, but rare luck
had put me alongside one of the few branches that I would
have recognized. I knew this one because there was a curi-
ous knot at the top which so resembled the snake-like head
of the pied-billed grebe that I never passed the stick without
noting it. I realized then almost to the foot where I was— only
a fishrod's distance between me and a small channel which
followed the shore line. I lunged and poled my way into it
with no feeling that skill had been responsible for my release.
So many flats were exposed in this area that I determined
to go along the shore where I could recognize my position. I
knew of no other way to get through this baffling invisibility.
In addition, more wildlife would be near shore than on the
open water. The fog still enveloped everything. I wondered
what the Indians thought of these dense visitations. Did they
fear them as they did night? Did they hold some particular

Fog Is a Puzzlement 2()r>

tamanous, or spirit, accountable for them? Did they think
that evil deeds occurred while these ground clouds choked
the land? Did they stay close to their camps as they did at
night? Here were many things to ask students of anthro-
pology.

That early morning I encountered many things which
would have puzzled Herbie. When I headed the canoe to-
ward the east I heard thousands of quick splashes merged
into a continuous pattern, followed by a light roar for a few
seconds and then by the sounds of many more splashes. As
the canoe continued to the east this succession occurred sev-
eral times. I think Herbie probably would not have bothered
to give it a local explanation. To him they would have been
porpoises off the port bow, or flying fishes leaving the water
to escape their pursuers, or some other exotic creatures. I am
sure that he would not have interpreted this activity as the
rolling of a flock of baldpates, these handsome little ducks
which spend much of the late fall and early winter in the
open water of the bay. I could hear their calls, wheezy and
musical, like the cries of the first dolls which talked when a
bellows-like contrivance located amidship was squeezed. I
could visualize the action of the birds as the nearest strip
would noisily rise and fly over the birds farther away and
then land in the first unoccupied water. This maneuver
would be repeated by the next nearest strip, until some part
of the flock was nearly always in motion, and the whole ef-
fect was that of a cylinder rolling and advancing.

By the time the baldpates had left the area I heard the
crows calling as they moved away from one of the little is-
lands which appeared in the center of the bay when the
water was low. The place must have furnished good feeding,
for these black opportunists who never overlooked good food
could always be seen hopping over it.

To mention difficulty in getting over a four hundred acre
bay seems absurd until one thinks of it in terms of almost

296 Union Bay

complete lack of visibility. I was in much the same position
as I have been when I awoke at night in a strange room and
tried to find my way to a door or a closet. There were no
landmarks, shadows, or aids to direction.

I listened for the sound of birds but they had moved to a
quieter part of the bay, and I heard only the distant murmur
of the calling baldpates. The center of the bay offered no
more events of interest. I turned to the traffic sounds in the
west and soon approached a shore which, when I was three
or four yards away, loomed up as a few perpendicular nar-
row stripes, then assumed more shape and detail until, a
paddle length away, I could distinguish cattails and other
marsh plants. This approach showed the typical pattern of'
the marsh fog; it began with formlessness, merged into blur-
riness, and changed, at close quarters, into detail.

Movement among the birds increased in the channel I fol-
lowed. They flew noisily before I could see them. Herbie,
with no inhibitions of imagination, could have labeled them
eagles, albatrosses, swans, penguins, or any other birds of ad-
venture, but I was forced to place them by their cries, as bit-
terns, green-winged teal, coots, blue herons, and mallards.
They flew noisily and grumpily as if irritated by the intru-
sion. I heard the cry of gulls far above and envied them their
extradimensional ability which took them out of the ground
obscurity. Undoubtedly the fog layer was not deep and they
were flying in clear air above it. Thus they easily avoided
the problems of the marsh residents in the murk below..

I speculated about these problems. A dense fog must alter
the relations between the predators and the preyed-upon. It
might give the hunted a respite or it could increase their
danger by allowing the predator to approach closer before
making the final spring. Or did the murkiness bring about a
temporary truce? My experience was not sufficient to justify
an opinion. I only knew that when I approached birds in a
light fog, they seemed much more alert, and the ducks, bit-

Fog Is a Puzzlement 297

terns, and herons took flight more quickly than on clear days.
Whether there was any regular pattern of foggy weather be-
havior could be determined only by extensive investigation.

Many sounds came to me as I followed the channel. They
appeared somewhat different from those I heard on clear
days. They were not muffled, neither were they clear. The
bark of a dog in the student housing district, the brakes of
an automobile, and the explosions of a back-firing truck had
a quality that I could not understand until I realized they
had a slightly muted effect, which seemed to alter their
quality without reducing their strength. I moved the canoe
slowly, stopping near some song sparrows and thinking that
only they and the chickadees remained so sprightly and
cheerful and showed such unconcern when storms visited
the marsh. I tried to establish my exact location by moving
close and glancing at two or three feet of shore. I found that
many trips had made this quite easy. Occasionally I recog-
nized bits of mudflats where I had stopped to photograph.
My mind returned to Herbie, for here was the little spot
where he had first approached me in his tiny catamaran as I
was watching the activities of some pectoral sandpipers.
There were the roots around which they had clustered and
slept after they had bathed and preened. Herbie's first atti-
tude had been one of indifference, but he regarded them
with much respect when I told him of their long travels be-
tween Alaska, their nesting ground, and Patagonia where
some of them wintered.

The swamp odors varied, sometimes acrid, often unpleas-
ant, now and then strong with a suggestion of iodine or car-
bolic acid. The odors, the neighboring sounds, and the quick
views of close shore patches summed up the possibilities of
the day. The result was one of restfulness. I had no need to
reach constantly for my binoculars or to twist my neck for
the sight of a bird that had flushed after the canoe had
passed. I could not watch for fish in the shallows below or

298 Union Bay

for frogs or snakes sunning themselves on the banks. Fog
blurred action, limited the workable area, and consequently
made less demand on one's attention. Fog reduced necessity
for action because it prevented any anticipation of action.
There was an impulse just to drift.

But I did not forget that there was real danger from fog; a
real reason why one must always mistrust it. Even in the bay
there was the possibility of a careless capsize which would
send the boat adrift in the haze and leave me floundering in
a sea of muck. I thought of how helplessly I could grope
about if there were no sounds to guide me. It made me un-
derstand how people who had lost their vision could never
have any real feeling of certainty. No good for them to light
the single match or to turn on a flash for the one look which
would instantly give a bearing. Their darkness never could
be resolved— it was a constantly enveloping medium. There
must always be a feeling that, regardless of all safeguards,
times would come when they would find themselves in a ter-
rifying nothingness in which they must helplessly stumble.
Whether the space was great or small they would have no
way of measuring it, nor of taking action if they measured it.
Flat space or edge of chasm, how difficult to know the dif-
ference.

I ate some sandwiches and found that I felt much more
comfortable. I decided that fogs were irritating and certainly
slowed things up, but they could be managed as long as con-
ditions were under control. That appeared to be the impor-
tant point in contact with this condition, for its obscurity
could be a cruel and relentless factor if circumstances were
unfavorable. If, instead of being in the compactness and the
security of the marsh, I was far from land on a great lake, or
on tidal water where currents ran swiftly and rocks reared
their sharp tops, then any lack of visibility might put me in
great peril. The difficulties of flying would be more grave
than of boating. I thought of the man who flew about in the

Fog Is a Puzzlement 299

fog near an airport in New England. His plane was of the
type that Herbie would have liked, a single-seater, last,
small, and dashing. But he was without instruments, and
when the vapor constantly thickened he could not land. Peo-
ple below heard him as he circled and vainly waited for a
hole that would let him down. What must have been his feel-
ings as the gauge marked a steadily decreasing supply of gas
until finally he must have realized that the fog was not going
to thin and he had no chance? How much anguish can a man
experience in two hours? Three times in my own life I have
faced sudden death and I can say there was no regret or fear
at the time because the crisis came so swiftly. But when the
end is delayed and yet certain, much horror can be packed
into that short period.

Even for birds the air is a bad place in a fog. The records
bulge with stories of the terrific casualties suffered by winged
migrants. Lights attract and hold them so they circle con-
stantly until, like the airman, they crash. Bushels of small
birds have been found dead at the base of certain lighthouses.
So heavy has been the destruction that the government has
put landing racks on many lights to enable the birds to
perch and rest.

I moved along as slowly as possible and with only light
and widely spaced paddle strokes. I followed the bank and
continued to watch the small visible area. It was like looking
through glasses which concentrated on one spot to the ex-
clusion of all others. To see one tiny section of the marsh was
quite different from viewing the whole as I usually did. And
I suspect that the freedom from any possibility of danger
due to the invisibility increased my pleasure.

I have a friend who has met fog under entirely different
circumstances. He was a quartermaster on a vessel operating
between Seattle, Alaska, and the Aleutian Islands. His stories
manifested no liking for fog. He told of narrow waters, tre-
mendous tides, and twisting channels. He described the diffi-

300 Union Bay

culties of determining the ship's position, the complex reck-
oning which involved speed, tide, wind, and drift.

The reality of this marsh fog brought his stories into strong
relief. I could close my ears to traffic, peer into the fog and
see my friend's ship plunging into subarctic conditions with
a lookout aloft who could glimpse little more than high
sheets of spray, with men in the navigating room plotting
the course, and with the ship's whistle eternally blowing as a
warning to other craft and as a method of detecting and
measuring the distance from land.

It was not the modern method of navigation, my friend
said, but it was one which had been followed for centuries.
He described the swift currents and narrowness of the fog-
filled passages and the tragedy of captains who had grounded
their ships after a lifetime of successful navigation. Fog was
hated and feared by the men, the owners, and the under-
writers.

Now, he explained, the systems of aerial and sea naviga-
tion had been completely changed. By the use of radar and
kindred equipment the navigator could pierce the fog and
view all the mist-enveloped objects before the ship. Snores,
cliffs, ships, icebergs, and islands appeared on the receiving
screen and made navigation possible with security. ,

That, I thought as I paddled along, completely changed
the character of fog. Night could be illuminated by powerful
apparatus so that it approached day in visibility, but fog had
been a cloud impenetrable to vision. Ordinary sight would
still find it impenetrable, but the proper equipment was now
available to reveal the presence and position of fog-sur-
rounded objects almost as well as in daylight.

As I looked about the vision-blocked marsh I thought that
some day portable sets might be available so that an indi-
vidual who was interested in studying wildlife could peer
into the fog and determine how the fog-bound dwellers of
the marsh behaved.

Fog Is a Puzzlement SOI

But I decided one thing as I paddled leisurely toward the
canoehouse in the slowly thinning mist. If Herbie joined the
many lads who were following the sea, I was glad that he
would not have to navigate as men had formerly done, and
that he could stand at the wheel in the denseness of a Pacific
fog and know with some certainty what was ahead.

The Specialist Loses Control

25

*m*S ♦ I STOPPED TO TALK TO THE CA-

noehouse manager on my first trip to the marsh during the
January storms. I found him shoveling snow which filled
the surrounding hollows and drifted back and forth with the
varying winds. His two dogs romped about, playing to-
gether, and tossing the snow which so seldom visited the
marsh.

"I see you have built a new feeding place," I said. "I
thought you had stopped for good."

"So I did. The birds seemed to get along as well without
it. But they were never in worse shape than now. The storms
are just too much for them. My wife and I don t enjoy watch-
ing things starve."

I knew how he felt. Many others felt the same way. All
over the city people were putting out suet, grain, and dried
fruit.

"Are you getting much patronage?" I asked.

"Plenty. Every marsh bird but the bittern. It acts as if it
enjoys starving. Small birds like juncos, song sparrows, tow-
hees, and chickadees came first, then bigger birds showed
up. Hunger certainly took the fear out of them. They are be-
ginning to act like barnyard hens."

302

\

■A K.Vii/ •

*»

f wyeR,

804 Union Bay

"That shows they need help/' I said. "Snow that creaks
when you walk on it and that drifts waist high is nice to look
at, but it belongs to New England, and these birds aren't
used to it."

People did not like such weather any better than did the
birds. It had been the worst January in years. The news-
papers told of many broken weather records, such as longest
cold spell, greatest snowfall, and lowest temperature. Storms
blocked traffic and closed schools and factories. Farmers
were unable to get feed to their livestock. The dispatches
called attention to the desperate condition of families which
had been cut off without fuel and supplies. Relief authorities
had to use tractors and planes to reach outlying districts.

I read much about the effectiveness of the aid to man and
his stock but little about aid to wildlife. I thought about it
every time a storm howled about my home. How was wild-
life faring? The wild creatures of the Puget Sound area were
accustomed to mild days and open water, with only a few
short periods of snow flurries and frosty weather. What was
happening to our birds? What had become of the bitterns
which remained when their fellows migrated? They were
now trapped in this most severe of all winters. Were they
and the other marsh residents getting enough food? I de-
cided to investigate.

The manager and I moved in front of the canoehouse
where we would be out of the wind. The new feeding tray
was on a post a few feet away. Bread and grain half filled it
and some of the scattered contents had dropped on the snow.
Two hen pheasants fed on the ground while small birds chat-
tered as they flew back and forth from the low willows
nearby. Then I saw birds in the shelter of the shrubs.

"Why, those are Virginia rails," I said. "Nobody could mis-
take their slender bills and ruddy color. It's the first time I
ever saw them come to a feeding tray. I thought they would
only eat snails and other small marsh life."

The Specialist Loses Control SOS

"Maybe so," he replied. "But that kind of food is either a
foot under snow or four inches under ice. They have to eat
something."

"So does the bittern," I said. "But you say that it refuses to
feed?"

"Seems that way," he replied. "It just stalks around with-
out paying any attention to the tray or the other birds. I
think it's the bittern that was around the float all summer—
the one that kept fat on tadpoles. I guess it's still thinking
about tadpoles and wants nothing else. I never saw a skin-
nier bird. It's a goner if the weather stays this way."

I went out on the float to look for the bittern. I found it
on shore near the projecting top of a clump of weeds. It
glared at me as if denying my right to intrude, stood a few
feet away, and then moved away with shoulder feathers
slightly raised and big feet making conspicuous tracks where
the snow was soft. If the bird was hungry its steady gait did
not indicate any weakness or inability to withstand such
conditions.

I remembered the first bittern I had seen. While paddling
one day my attention had been attracted to the cattails along
the bank of the marsh. Some break in the continuitv of line,
a slight irregularity in the pattern, told me that a foreign ob-
ject was there. What happened when I stopped the canoe
could be compared to the dissolve in a change of movie
scene. As I looked at the spot, the cattails lost form and were
replaced by lines and patterns which were not those of the
marsh but of a bird— a chicken-size stocky brown bird, the
breast of which was striped or streaked vertically in a way
which reminded me of the shirt of an English soccer player.
For the moment the long and sharp bill pointed directly up-
ward. The legs were strong and yellowish-green and the eyes
yellow. The neck was outstretched.

I have learned much about the bittern since that first
meeting. I found that it was a resident of many of the marshy

306 Union Bay

areas of the United States, raising its young in nests usually
situated in or at the edge of the marsh, sticking to the ground
and seldom flying except in migration or during the mating
season. I observed that it often drew its neck close to the
body and so altered its silhouette that it looked like a differ-
ent bird. Its call, oong-ka-choonk, sounded to me exactly
like the grunting of a pitcher pump which brought the rain
water from my aunt's cistern to her kitchen. I had watched
the spring nights of the bitterns over the marsh. They were
made, I was certain, to impress their prospective mates. I
occasionally saw one of the young— perverse infants which,
when faced, often refused to rush into the cattails, but
merely ruffled their feathers and resentfully defied me before
moving away.

The question of how these big and slow birds could exist
successfully in an area of low growth and limited size puz-
zled me for a long time. Obviously, flight was not the an-
swer. Ground speed was not enough. What other method
was available?

Observation taught me that this bird relied principally on
concealment. Even if time were plentiful, it refused to fly or
to rush into the shelter of the marsh growth. Instead, after
settling into a steady position, it stiffened its body, erected
its neck, pointed its long bill vertically, and faced me so that
the light and dark browns, and the white streaks of the
breast, paralleled those of the cattail and reed background.
And there it would stand. Trucks could rattle by on the high-
way, powerboats could swish within a few yards, planes dip,
canoes splash by, or bombs explode at the beginning of the
football game, but the bird would remain motionless. "Easy
does it" seemed to be its motto. It seldom made a move un-
less the too-close approach of an intruder indicated that its
attempt at concealment had failed and only flight remained.
I could find no fault with its system, for the bird was a mas-
ter of camouflage.

The Specialist Loses Control 307

But I had never before seen it under the conditions that
existed during those January days. Ice topped the water of
the lagoons and white fingers had solidified in every shore
indentation. Out in the bay the vapor rose as if from Paul
Bunyan's soup kettle. The roofs of the houses carried a heavy
load of snow. The willows and cotton woods were cased in
the sleet of night storms and the heavy hanging branches
were white like the snow cover beneath them. I kicked the
crusted snow with my ski boots and wondered what a bittern
could get to eat in such an area and where it could find suita-
ble cover.

For a bittern is a specialist not only in the art of camou-
flage but in its diet as well. It is no vegetarian, but concen-
trates on animal diet including snails, shellfish, crayfish,
tadpoles, frogs, small bullheads, dragonflies, and other such
residents of the area. It is a complete marsh specialist,
adapted through the ages and expert in such surroundings.
At first sight this manner of living appears to be without flaw
or objection— a recognition of the modern idea of narrowing
one's life to one phase of one field. In the main I suppose this
is satisfactory. I watched the successful operation of the bit-
tern for a dozen years and not until this January did I dis-
cover that specialization could be subject to severe penalties.

The penalties were not imposed on the summer residents,
the bitterns which practiced their specialty when conditions
were favorable: when the marsh growth was full of dark
pockets, easy retreats, and with lines and shadows which fol-
lowed the bittern pattern and allowed them to pose quietly
while other wildlife and man came close to them. At that
season a supply of desirable food was available and com-
paratively easy to obtain. The problems then were merely
those of a bird living in an area for which it was conditioned.
But most of those summer residents had left when the marsh
began to slump and change color and when the small an-
nuals dried in the fall wind. Perhaps only two or three birds

808 Union Bay

remained after trie general exodus : they were the ones which
were to teach me that a specialist under adverse conditions
is in a sorry plight.

For what could a specialist, whose safety depended upon
waving cattails and heavy growth and dark shadows, do
when most of the vegetation lay in heaps on the ground and
under many inches of snow? Brown and white stripes offered
no protection. The snow-covered ground reflected light into
every cranny and removed the protective shadows. And how
could a creature which depended on animal food gain a liv-
ing when the sources of such food were sealed with snow
crust and ice?

In the summer I had often seen the bittern on a small
point just opposite the bank which I passed. It had fished
there regularly, feet in soft squishy mud, sun on its back,
lethargic, comfortable, and confident, I assume, that almost
any time it could pull a fat tadpole from the water. Did
memory, or that which takes the place of memory in birds,
make it feel that since tadpoles were once there they should
always be there regardless of season? I could not think that
this bittern was to die because only animal food would satisfy
it. I asked myself why a bird of this kind could not be
equipped with a more flexible sort of behavior pattern so
that if frogs and other favored articles of diet were not pres-
ent it might take something that would furnish temporary
relief. Men who got desperately hungry chewed grass or
leather, drank coal oil, or even ate dirt in the hope of getting
some nourishment. Why shouldn't a hungry bittern go
through the motions of eating and in so doing get hold of
seeds or roots or something nourishing enough to prolong
existence? Such narrow limitations appeared unjustified.
Was it reasonable that specialization could be carried so far
that its practice meant death to the specialist?

I walked back to the float. The clouds had not lifted, but
they were so thin that the sun showed faintly through them.

The Specialist Loses Control 300

The north wind would clean them out before dark and that
would mean a colder night. The ice cracked and grunted.
The snow lay clean and unmarked except where two trails
crossed it. In the mountains there would have been hundreds
of footprints to indicate the passing of large and small resi-
dents, but so many feral cats and hunting dogs roamed the
marsh shores that rabbits were absent and other small mam-
mals few. Several hundred gulls sat, or slipped about, on the
ice at the mouth of the cove. Only the chickadees retained
their activity; they flew from bush to bush and kept up a
constant chattering. The storms might begin again but they
would manage to find food.

The storm did begin after a cold night. Snow fell intermit-
tently for three days. When I again saw the marsh the snow
had deepened and left the baseball field as smooth and white
as a mountain meadow. Certainly conditions for the birds
had not improved. I looked for bittern tracks as I walked
along the shore toward the canoehouse but the snow cover
was unmarked. The manager met me and we walked toward
the feeding station.

"How's the restaurant making out?" I asked.

"Fine. I get a couple of new boarders every day."

"Has the bittern taken on vegetarian habits? I've been
worrying about it?"

"You had the right hunch. See what's in the garage."

He opened the door and there was our friend the bittern
which lacked the flexibility to deviate. It lay on the floor
without moving, but when we got within a yard it opened its
bill and hissed. When we stood quietly it lowered its head
and watched us closely.

"The dogs found it on the float this morning," the manager
said. "They wouldn't hurt it but they knew something was
wrong, for they circled and barked until I came. The bird
was so weak that I could pick it up without gloves."

310 Union Bay

"Its bill is long and sharp. You could get a nasty jab if it
really hit you."

"Not in its present shape. It can hiss and open its bill and
act mean, but it's too weak to make a single pass. The poor
thing is just about starved."

"Have you tried to feed it?" I asked.

"What can I give it? Every day it passes up the stuff that
the other birds eat. It's had plenty of chance to try every-
thing IVe got."

I looked at the bird. I had never been so close to one. My
impression had been general. It was tawnier, and its bill and
legs were sturdier than they appeared at a. distance. The
body seemed larger, too. But the plumage impressed me
most— delicate browns, tans and creams, mottled and
freckled and barred in different tones. Here was all the love-
liness and detail which placed the bird feather among the
most remarkable of nature's creations. I noticed the creamy-
white throat, the breast striping, and the black neck mark-
ings. The combinations of color and pattern explained the
effectiveness of the camouflage.

I admired the attitude of the bird. Even though it was
hungry, perhaps dying, it possessed the quality that my
grandfather always referred to as staunchness. Its hiss met
every one of our quick movements and its tenseness indi-
cated its willingness to strike though it lacked the strength to
do it. Scientists probably would have termed it the defensive
reaction of an animal that was filled with fear. But whatever
it was, I liked it and I determined to make some kind of an
effort to help even though I was almost certain the attempt
would fail.

"I know the director of the zoo," I said. "Perhaps he could
save it by feeding it the kind of food they give their herons.
I'm willing to try it."

The bittern lay as if on a nest when we placed it in a box.

The Specialist Loses Control 3 1 1

It snapped its bill and made its usual sound but made do at-
tempt to strike. I could hear its claws scrape as I drove.

The director and two assistants greeted me with a cor-
diality that convinced me that I had come to the right place.
The bird began its hissing as we drew it from the box. A boy,
evidently the son of one of the assistants, laughed. I asked
him what amused him.

"It's the noise the bittern makes," he replied. "I've seen
lots of birds and I've heard 'em make funny sounds, but I
never heard a bird growl before."

The assistant drew his hand along the bird's breastbone.

"It's thin and just about starved. We'll put it in with the
waders and see if it will take food."

We entered the aviary and stood before the beautiful sec-
tion which housed the egrets and herons. It was a tropical
scene with a small pond in the foreground, a tree with
branches where the birds could perch and climb, and with
rich growth beneath. The small door in the rear opened and
the assistant prepared to introduce the bittern. The birds
observed the intruder and displayed some unrest by calling
and fluttering their wings. The bittern hissed, opened its bill,
but made no other movement. When the assistant dropped
it lightly into the pond where some small fish were floating,
I thought surely the bird would start feeding, but it moved
slowly toward the other side of the pond, crawled over the
edge, and lay down.

The attendant shook his head and said, "It looks bad but
we'll do our best. We'll try to force-feed it if it doesn't eat.
But we'll wait until evening."

The boy smiled sympathetically as I left.

"Don't worry," he said, "I just know it'll get along all

right.-

I was not so hopeful as the boy. I had seen the cure and
release of many small birds which had been brought in with
broken wings, or otherwise injured, but I had never wit-

812 Union Bay

nessed the recovery of waders or divers which had been in
distress. They suffered from the shock of handling and they
would not eat. I knew of many people who had picked up
oil-covered birds which were otherwise uninjured. They had
done everything to bring them back to normal but few suc-
ceeded.

I returned to the marsh to look again at the unusual ap-
pearance of the snow- and ice-covered area. Ducks, coots,
and gulls were dropping on the ice at the edge of the bay
and I watched the ludicrous manner in which they landed.
The coots seemed to have no control, the ducks little more.
Only the gulls succeeded in making a reasonably dignified
stop. My mind still clung to the bittern. Why shouldn't a
bird alter its habits temporarily if necessity required it?

What was the reason for this restricted type of diet? One
thing appeared certain: each animal with fixed food prefer-
ences must live where those preferences can be satisfied. An
overwhelming urge to use only certain kinds of food would
hold a bittern to places where such food could be secured.
The great natural scheme of things emphasized stability. The
inflexible desire for a definite diet might be the only method
of preventing the building up of a gradual taste for grains
and such products which would make the animal able to live
in many other kinds of places and compete with other spe-
cies of birds. In other words, our bittern must remain a spe-
cialist, regardless of consequences, in order that it and its
kind might continue to be marsh dwellers and nothing else.
I wondered if this theory might be the correct one.

The sun shone brightly, the sharpness of the air pleased
me, and I continued my walk. I passed a spot where a little
hill rose from the marsh. Out of the hill flowed a tiny stream,
perhaps a couple of feet in width and three inches in depth.
It apparently came from the University powerhouse, for it
was warm enough to prevent ice from forming and to push
the snow back from its margins. It crossed four or five rods

The Specialist Loses Control SIS

of mixed alder and cottonwood, entered a culvert, and
trickled into one of the marsh channels. Small as it was, on
that day it was the only running water in the marsh.

As I stood in the drifted snow a small object burst from
the shelter of the bank and skittered across the water and
along the edge. When it stopped I noticed the reddish body
and its striped rear underparts. The bird stepped into the
shallow stream and, disregarding my motionless presence,
began to probe with its long bill. I thought that here was one
Virginia rail that had avoided the dole handed out by the
canoehouse manager. I watched the bird for it was a rare op-
portunity to see a rail feeding. It probed as busily as pectoral
sandpipers or Wilson snipes, its bill constantly pumping up
and down and its feet leading it into new positions. Then I
saw a larger shape a few yards away in the brush. It ap-
proached slowly along the stream. It was another bittern.

For the past two weeks I had been watching a bittern
under much different conditions. That bird had been a spe-
cialist deprived of control over life. Every time I had seen it
in the snow I had the feeling I was looking at an uncompre-
hending creature which was struggling to do what could not
possibly be done, as a man might labor hour after hour
through a waterless desert because activity was the only
thing left to him. That bird had been weak, helpless, and
doomed.

But along this stream I was looking at another type, a con-
fident bird, a bird in good condition. It advanced step by
step along the streamlet. Food may not have been plentiful
but there was enough to sustain it. A bittern knew all the
tricks of living and hunting under such conditions. The tiny
stream held things which it could find and take and liked. I
thought it strange that the other bird had not left its ice-
bound habitat and traveled the short distance to the place
where life was reasonably certain. Then I remembered the
solitary habits and uncertain temper of bitterns and I thought

814 Union Bay

that if the hungry bird had tried to enter by force this
stronger one would have attacked and driven it away.

I waited nearly half an hour before the bird reached the
spot where I stood. It had worked here and there, and
t\ough I had not seen it take food of any size I am quite sure
that it was obtaining small things. And its plump and healthy
appearance indicated no lack of nourishment. At last the
bird saw me. It did not attempt its usual freezing. There
must have been realization that snow and naked trees afford
no camouflage background, for the bird rose immediately
and flew. I took a short walk around the clump of trees to
see where it had landed. Just before the streamlet passed .
under the road was a shallow pool of water less than four
feet in diameter. The bittern stood in this brush-free spot, in
the center of the tiny pool. When I approached too closely it
flew a few yards and dropped alongside the stream again.
Evidently it felt that its salvation lay near this water and
there it would stay.

I called the zoo the next morning. They reported that the
patient had appeared to pick up a little and they had been
quite encouraged. But though its hiss appeared stronger and
its resentment at interference more violent, it remained in
the same spot in the corner of the enclosure and would not
eat. As a last measure they tried force-feeding but with no
success. The bird passed away during the night. They were
very sorry.

The manager, his wife, and I were very sorry, too, because
five days later the weather suddenly moderated so that when
I came to the marsh the scene had changed entirely. Brown
earth showed through the snow, pools of water covered the
ice, and in many places the banks were bare. The birds no
longer clustered around the feeding tray. They had no liking
for such living and accepted the dole only because they had
no other choice. Now they were scattered over the whole

The Specialist Loses Control 315

marsh. If our specialist could have held out for a few more
days it would have been safe.

I went to the little trickle that had remained unfrozen,
and although I looked the whole space over and returned to
it twice in the course of my jaunt, the second bird was not
there. It was not until I passed the canoehouse that I saw a
bittern walking along the banks which, when they had been
frozen, had treated the former resident so inhospitably. But
now much open water was about and the remaining ice was
soft and rapidly melting. The rushes and grasses were free.
There were many places where an enterprising bittern could
take food, for in normal times there was no more productive
area in the marsh. I had never seen a time when a bittern did
not occupy this spot. There must have been much strife over
its possession. Perhaps the dead bird had often defended it
against the very bird which had moved from the creek and
occupied the territory as soon as it could be done without
opposition. The new occupant would have no difficulty from
now on.

The old tenant had been eliminated but a new bird was
now in control. For though there was much snow present,
spring rushed irresistibly on. I noticed that the willow tips
were turning a yellow-green and that the buds were fat. I
knew that the Indian plum would be blooming within two
weeks and that swallows would be seen on the bay in March.
Then in the weeks which followed our bittern would be
seeking a companion from the returning migrants and again
the marsh would be full of the "stake-driving" chant of the
mated birds.

END

M, A R S H

CAMPUS

MARSH

M A R S H

ATHLETIC
PAVILION

\ \ l-Hi.

LAURELHURST

LAKE
WASHINGTON

MARS

UNION BAY AND ENVIRONS