THE WATER-OUZEL
The waterfalls of the Sierra are frequented by only one bird,—the Ouzel
or Water Thrush (_Cinclus Mexicanus_, SW.). He is a singularly joyous
and lovable little fellow, about the size of a robin, clad in a plain
waterproof suit of bluish gray, with a tinge of chocolate on the head
and shoulders. In form he is about as smoothly plump and compact as a
pebble that has been whirled in a pot-hole, the flowing contour of his
body being interrupted only by his strong feet and bill, the crisp
wing-tips, and the up-slanted wren-like tail. Among all the countless
waterfalls I have met in the course of ten years’ exploration in the
Sierra, whether among the icy peaks, or warm foot-hills, or in the
profound yosemitic cañons of the middle region, not one was found
without its Ouzel. No cañon is too cold for this little bird, none too
lonely, provided it be rich in falling water. Find a fall, or cascade,
or rushing rapid, anywhere upon a clear stream, and there you will
surely find its complementary Ouzel, flitting about in the spray,
diving in foaming eddies, whirling like a leaf among beaten foam-bells;
ever vigorous and enthusiastic, yet self-contained, and neither seeking
nor shunning your company.
[Illustration: WATER-OUZEL DIVING AND FEEDING.]
If disturbed while dipping about in the margin shallows, he either sets
off with a rapid whir to some other feeding-ground up or down the
stream, or alights on some half-submerged rock or snag out in the
current, and immediately begins to nod and courtesy like a wren,
turning his head from side to side with many other odd dainty movements
that never fail to fix the attention of the observer.
He is the mountain streams’ own darling, the humming-bird of blooming
waters, loving rocky ripple-slopes and sheets of foam as a bee loves
flowers, as a lark loves sunshine and meadows. Among all the mountain
birds, none has cheered me so much in my lonely wanderings,—none so
unfailingly. For both in winter and summer he sings, sweetly, cheerily,
independent alike of sunshine and of love, requiring no other
inspiration than the stream on which he dwells. While water sings, so
must he, in heat or cold, calm or storm, ever attuning his voice in
sure accord; low in the drought of summer and the drought of winter,
but never silent.
During the golden days of Indian summer, after most of the snow has
been melted, and the mountain streams have become feeble,—a succession
of silent pools, linked together by shallow, transparent currents and
strips of silvery lacework,—then the song of the Ouzel is at its lowest
ebb. But as soon as the winter clouds have bloomed, and the mountain
treasuries are once more replenished with snow, the voices of the
streams and ouzels increase in strength and richness until the flood
season of early summer. Then the torrents chant their noblest anthems,
and then is the flood-time of our songster’s melody. As for weather,
dark days and sun days are the same to him. The voices of most
song-birds, however joyous, suffer a long winter eclipse; but the Ouzel
sings on through all the seasons and every kind of storm. Indeed no
storm can be more violent than those of the waterfalls in the midst of
which he delights to dwell. However dark and boisterous the weather,
snowing, blowing, or cloudy, all the same he sings, and with never a
note of sadness. No need of spring sunshine to thaw _his_ song, for it
never freezes. Never shall you hear anything wintry from _his_ warm
breast; no pinched cheeping, no wavering notes between sorrow and joy;
his mellow, fluty voice is ever tuned to downright gladness, as free
from dejection as cock-crowing.
It is pitiful to see wee frost-pinched sparrows on cold mornings in the
mountain groves shaking the snow from their feathers, and hopping about
as if anxious to be cheery, then hastening back to their hidings out of
the wind, puffing out their breast-feathers over their toes, and
subsiding among the leaves, cold and breakfastless, while the snow
continues to fall, and there is no sign of clearing. But the Ouzel
never calls forth a single touch of pity; not because he is strong to
endure, but rather because he seems to live a charmed life beyond the
reach of every influence that makes endurance necessary.
One wild winter morning, when Yosemite Valley was swept its length from
west to east by a cordial snow-storm, I sallied forth to see what I
might learn and enjoy. A sort of gray, gloaming-like darkness filled
the valley, the huge walls were out of sight, all ordinary sounds were
smothered, and even the loudest booming of the falls was at times
buried beneath the roar of the heavy-laden blast. The loose snow was
already over five feet deep on the meadows, making extended walks
impossible without the aid of snow-shoes. I found no great difficulty,
however, in making my way to a certain ripple on the river where one of
my ouzels lived. He was at home, busily gleaning his breakfast among
the pebbles of a shallow portion of the margin, apparently unaware of
anything extraordinary in the weather. Presently he flew out to a stone
against which the icy current was beating, and turning his back to the
wind, sang as delightfully as a lark in springtime.
After spending an hour or two with my favorite, I made my way across
the valley, boring and wallowing through the drifts, to learn as
definitely as possible how the other birds were spending their time.
The Yosemite birds are easily found during the winter because all of
them excepting the Ouzel are restricted to the sunny north side of the
valley, the south side being constantly eclipsed by the great frosty
shadow of the wall. And because the Indian Cañon groves, from their
peculiar exposure, are the warmest, the birds congregate there, more
especially in severe weather.
I found most of the robins cowering on the lee side of the larger
branches where the snow could not fall upon them, while two or three of
the more enterprising were making desperate efforts to reach the
mistletoe berries by clinging nervously to the under side of the
snow-crowned masses, back downward, like woodpeckers. Every now and
then they would dislodge some of the loose fringes of the snow-crown,
which would come sifting down on them and send them screaming back to
camp, where they would subside among their companions with a shiver,
muttering in low, querulous chatter like hungry children.
Some of the sparrows were busy at the feet of the larger trees gleaning
seeds and benumbed insects, joined now and then by a robin weary of his
unsuccessful attempts upon the snow-covered berries. The brave
woodpeckers were clinging to the snowless sides of the larger boles and
overarching branches of the camp trees, making short nights from side
to side of the grove, pecking now and then at the acorns they had
stored in the bark, and chattering aimlessly as if unable to keep
still, yet evidently putting in the time in a very dull way, like
storm-bound travelers at a country tavern. The hardy nut-hatches were
threading the open furrows of the trunks in their usual industrious
manner, and uttering their quaint notes, evidently less distressed than
their neighbors. The Steller jays were of course making more noisy stir
than all the other birds combined; ever coming and going with loud
bluster, screaming as if each had a lump of melting sludge in his
throat, and taking good care to improve the favorable opportunity
afforded by the storm to steal from the acorn stores of the
woodpeckers. I also noticed one solitary gray eagle braving the storm
on the top of a tall pine-stump just outside the main grove. He was
standing bolt upright with his back to the wind, a tuft of snow piled
on his square shoulders, a monument of passive endurance. Thus every
snow-bound bird seemed more or less uncomfortable if not in positive
distress.
The storm was reflected in every gesture, and not one cheerful note,
not to say song, came from a single bill; their cowering, joyless
endurance offering a striking contrast to the spontaneous,
irrepressible gladness of the Ouzel, who could no more help exhaling
sweet song than a rose sweet fragrance. He _must_ sing though the
heavens fall. I remember noticing the distress of a pair of robins
during the violent earthquake of the year 1872, when the pines of the
Valley, with strange movements, flapped and waved their branches, and
beetling rock-brows came thundering down to the meadows in tremendous
avalanches. It did not occur to me in the midst of the excitement of
other observations to look for the ouzels, but I doubt not they were
singing straight on through it all, regarding the terrible rock-thunder
as fearlessly as they do the booming of the waterfalls.
What may be regarded as the separate songs of the Ouzel are exceedingly
difficult of description, because they are so variable and at the same
time so confluent. Though I have been acquainted with my favorite ten
years, and during most of this time have heard him sing nearly every
day, I still detect notes and strains that seem new to me. Nearly all
of his music is sweet and tender, lapsing from his round breast like
water over the smooth lip of a pool, then breaking farther on into a
sparkling foam of melodious notes, which, glow with subdued enthusiasm,
yet without expressing much of the strong, gushing ecstasy of the
bobolink or skylark.
The more striking strains are perfect arabesques of melody, composed of
a few full, round, mellow notes, embroidered with delicate trills which
fade and melt in long slender cadences. In a general way his music is
that of the streams refined and spiritualized. The deep booming notes
of the falls are in it, the trills of rapids, the gurgling of margin
eddies, the low whispering of level reaches, and the sweet tinkle of
separate drops oozing from the ends of mosses and falling into tranquil
pools.
The Ouzel never sings in chorus with other birds, nor with his kind,
but only with the streams. And like flowers that bloom beneath the
surface of the ground, some of our favorite’s best song-blossoms never
rise above the surface of the heavier music of the water. I have often
observed him singing in the midst of beaten spray, his music completely
buried beneath the water’s roar; yet I knew he was surely singing by
his gestures and the movements of his bill.
His food, as far as I have noticed, consists of all kinds of water
insects, which in summer are chiefly procured along shallow margins.
Here he wades about ducking his head under water and deftly turning
over pebbles and fallen leaves with his bill, seldom choosing to go
into deep water where he has to use his wings in diving.
He seems to be especially fond of the larvae; of mosquitos, found in
abundance attached to the bottom of smooth rock channels where the
current is shallow. When feeding in such places he wades up-stream, and
often while his head is under water the swift current is deflected
upward along the glossy curves of his neck and shoulders, in the form
of a clear, crystalline shell, which fairly incloses him like a
bell-glass, the shell being broken and re-formed as he lifts and dips
his head; while ever and anon he sidles out to where the too powerful
current carries him off his feet; then he dexterously rises on the wing
and goes gleaning again in shallower places.
But during the winter, when the stream-banks are embossed in snow, and
the streams themselves are chilled nearly to the freezing-point, so
that the snow falling into them in stormy weather is not wholly
dissolved, but forms a thin, blue sludge, thus rendering the current
opaque—then he seeks the deeper portions of the main rivers, where he
may dive to clear water beneath the sludge. Or he repairs to some open
lake or mill-pond, at the bottom of which he feeds in safety.
When thus compelled to betake himself to a lake, he does not plunge
into it at once like a duck, but always alights in the first place upon
some rock or fallen pine along the shore. Then flying out thirty or
forty yards, more or less, according to the character of the bottom, he
alights with a dainty glint on the surface, swims about, looks down,
finally makes up his mind, and disappears with a sharp stroke of his
wings. After feeding for two or three minutes he suddenly reappears,
showers the water from his wings with one vigorous shake, and rises
abruptly into the air as if pushed up from beneath, comes back to his
perch, sings a few minutes, and goes out to dive again; thus coming and
going, singing and diving at the same place for hours.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE LATE-SUMMER FEEDING-GROUNDS OF THE OUZEL.]
The Ouzel is usually found singly; rarely in pairs, excepting during
the breeding season, and _very_ rarely in threes or fours. I once
observed three thus spending a winter morning in company, upon a small
glacier lake, on the Upper Merced, about 7500 feet above the level of
the sea. A storm had occurred during the night, but the morning sun
shone unclouded, and the shadowy lake, gleaming darkly in its setting
of fresh snow, lay smooth and motionless as a mirror. My camp chanced
to be within a few feet of the water’s edge, opposite a fallen pine,
some of the branches of which leaned out over the lake. Here my three
dearly welcome visitors took up their station, and at once began to
embroider the frosty air with their delicious melody, doubly delightful
to me that particular morning, as I had been somewhat apprehensive of
danger in breaking my way down through the snow-choked cañons to the
lowlands.
The portion of the lake bottom selected for a feeding-ground lies at a
depth of fifteen or twenty feet below the surface, and is covered with
a short growth of algae and other aquatic plants,—facts I had
previously determined while sailing over it on a raft. After alighting
on the glassy surface, they occasionally indulged in a little play,
chasing one another round about in small circles; then all three would
suddenly dive together, and then come ashore and sing.
The Ouzel seldom swims more than a few yards on the surface, for, not
being web-footed, he makes rather slow progress, but by means of his
strong, crisp wings he swims, or rather flies, with celerity under the
surface, often to considerable distances. But it is in withstanding the
force of heavy rapids that his strength of wing in this respect is most
strikingly manifested. The following may be regarded as a fair
illustration of his power of sub-aquatic flight. One stormy morning in
winter when the Merced River was blue and green with unmelted snow, I
observed one of my ouzels perched on a snag out in the midst of a
swift-rushing rapid, singing cheerily, as if everything was just to his
mind; and while I stood on the bank admiring him, he suddenly plunged
into the sludgy current, leaving his song abruptly broken off. After
feeding a minute or two at the bottom, and when one would suppose that
he must inevitably be swept far down-stream, he emerged just where he
went down, alighted on the same snag, showered the water-beads from his
feathers, and continued his unfinished song, seemingly in tranquil ease
as if it had suffered no interruption.
[Illustration: OUZEL ENTERING A WHITE CURRENT.]
The Ouzel alone of all birds dares to enter a white torrent. And though
strictly terrestrial in structure, no other is so inseparably related
to water, not even the duck, or the bold ocean albatross, or the
stormy-petrel. For ducks go ashore as soon as they finish feeding in
undisturbed places, and very often make long flights over land from
lake to lake or field to field. The same is true of most other aquatic
birds. But the Ouzel, born on the brink of a stream, or on a snag or
boulder in the midst of it, seldom leaves it for a single moment. For,
notwithstanding he is often on the wing, he never flies overland, but
whirs with, rapid, quail-like beat above the stream, tracing all its
windings. Even when the stream is quite small, say from five to ten
feet wide, he seldom shortens his flight by crossing a bend, however
abrupt it may be; and even when disturbed by meeting some one on the
bank, he prefers to fly over one’s head, to dodging out over the
ground. When, therefore, his flight along a crooked stream is viewed
endwise, it appears most strikingly wavered—a description on the air of
every curve with lightning-like rapidity.
The vertical curves and angles of the most precipitous torrents he
traces with the same rigid fidelity, swooping down the inclines of
cascades, dropping sheer over dizzy falls amid the spray, and ascending
with the same fearlessness and ease, seldom seeking to lessen the
steepness of the acclivity by beginning to ascend before reaching the
base of the fall. No matter though it may be several hundred feet in
height he holds straight on, as if about to dash headlong into the
throng of booming rockets, then darts abruptly upward, and, after
alighting at the top of the precipice to rest a moment, proceeds to
feed and sing. His flight is solid and impetuous, without any
intermission of wing-beats,—one homogeneous buzz like that of a laden
bee on its way home. And while thus buzzing freely from fall to fall,
he is frequently heard giving utterance to a long outdrawn train of
unmodulated notes, in no way connected with his song, but corresponding
closely with his flight in sustained vigor.
Were the flights of all the ouzels in the Sierra traced on a chart,
they would indicate the direction of the flow of the entire system of
ancient glaciers, from about the period of the breaking up of the
ice-sheet until near the close of the glacial winter; because the
streams which the ouzels so rigidly follow are, with the unimportant
exceptions of a few side tributaries, all flowing in channels eroded
for them out of the solid flank of the range by the vanished
glaciers,—the streams tracing the ancient glaciers, the ouzels tracing
the streams. Nor do we find so complete compliance to glacial
conditions in the life of any other mountain bird, or animal of any
kind. Bears frequently accept the pathways laid down by glaciers as the
easiest to travel; but they often leave them and cross over from cañon
to cañon. So also, most of the birds trace the moraines to some extent,
because the forests are growing on them. But they wander far, crossing
the cañons from grove to grove, and draw exceedingly angular and
complicated courses.
The Ouzel’s nest is one of the most extraordinary pieces of bird
architecture I ever saw, odd and novel in design, perfectly fresh and
beautiful, and in every way worthy of the genius of the little builder.
It is about a foot in diameter, round and bossy in outline, with a
neatly arched opening near the bottom, somewhat like an old-fashioned
brick oven, or Hottentot’s hut. It is built almost exclusively of green
and yellow mosses, chiefly the beautiful fronded hypnum that covers the
rocks and old drift-logs in the vicinity of waterfalls. These are
deftly interwoven, and felted together into a charming little hut; and
so situated that many of the outer mosses continue to flourish as if
they had not been plucked. A few fine, silky-stemmed grasses are
occasionally found interwoven with the mosses, but, with the exception
of a thin layer lining the floor, their presence seems accidental, as
they are of a species found growing with the mosses and are probably
plucked with them. The site chosen for this curious mansion is usually
some little rock-shelf within reach of the lighter particles of the
spray of a waterfall, so that its walls are kept green and growing, at
least during the time of high water.
No harsh lines are presented by any portion of the nest as seen in
place, but when removed from its shelf, the back and bottom, and
sometimes a portion of the top, is found quite sharply angular, because
it is made to conform to the surface of the rock upon which and against
which it is built, the little architect always taking advantage of
slight crevices and protuberances that may chance to offer, to render
his structure stable by means of a kind of gripping and dovetailing.
In choosing a building-spot, concealment does not seem to be taken into
consideration; yet notwithstanding the nest is large and guilelessly
exposed to view, it is far from being easily detected, chiefly because
it swells forward like any other bulging moss-cushion growing naturally
in such situations. This is more especially the case where the nest is
kept fresh by being well sprinkled. Sometimes these romantic little
huts have their beauty enhanced by rock-ferns and grasses that spring
up around the mossy walls, or in front of the door-sill, dripping with
crystal beads.
Furthermore, at certain hours of the day, when the sunshine is poured
down at the required angle, the whole mass of the spray enveloping the
fairy establishment is brilliantly irised; and it is through so
glorious a rainbow atmosphere as this that some of our blessed ouzels
obtain their first peep at the world.
Ouzels seem so completely part and parcel of the streams they inhabit,
they scarce suggest any other origin than the streams themselves; and
one might almost be pardoned in fancying they come direct from the
living waters, like flowers from the ground. At least, from whatever
cause, it never occurred to me to look for their nests until more than
a year after I had made the acquaintance of the birds themselves,
although I found one the very day on which I began the search. In
making my way from Yosemite to the glaciers at the heads of the Merced
and Tuolumne rivers, I camped in a particularly wild and romantic
portion of the Nevada cañon where in previous excursions I had never
failed to enjoy the company of my favorites, who were attracted here,
no doubt, by the safe nesting-places in the shelving rocks, and by the
abundance of food and falling water. The river, for miles above and
below, consists of a succession of small falls from ten to sixty feet
in height, connected by flat, plume-like cascades that go flashing from
fall to fall, free and almost channelless, over waving folds of
glacier-polished granite.
On the south side of one of the falls, that portion of the precipice
which is bathed by the spray presents a series of little shelves and
tablets caused by the development of planes of cleavage in the granite,
and by the consequent fall of masses through the action of the water.
“Now here,” said I, “of all places, is the most charming spot for an
Ouzel’s nest.” Then carefully scanning the fretted face of the
precipice through the spray, I at length noticed a yellowish
moss-cushion, growing on the edge of a level tablet within five or six
feet of the outer folds of the fall. But apart from the fact of its
being situated where one acquainted with the lives of ouzels would
fancy an Ouzel’s nest ought to be, there was nothing in its appearance
visible at first sight, to distinguish it from other bosses of
rock-moss similarly situated with reference to perennial spray; and it
was not until I had scrutinized it again and again, and had removed my
shoes and stockings and crept along the face of the rock within eight
or ten feet of it, that I could decide certainly whether it was a nest
or a natural growth.
In these moss huts three or four eggs are laid, white like
foam-bubbles; and well may the little birds hatched from them sing
water songs, for they hear them all their lives, and even before they
are born.
I have often observed the young just out of the nest making their odd
gestures, and seeming in every way as much at home as their experienced
parents, like young bees on their first excursions to the flower
fields. No amount of familiarity with people and their ways seems to
change them in the least. To all appearance their behavior is just the
same on seeing a man for the first time, as when they have seen him
frequently.
[Illustration: THE OUZEL AT HOME.]
On the lower reaches of the rivers where mills are built, they sing on
through the din of the machinery, and all the noisy confusion of dogs,
cattle, and workmen. On one occasion, while a wood-chopper was at work
on the river-bank, I observed one cheerily singing within reach of the
flying chips. Nor does any kind of unwonted disturbance put him in bad
humor, or frighten him out of calm self-possession. In passing through
a narrow gorge, I once drove one ahead of me from rapid to rapid,
disturbing him four times in quick succession where he could not very
well fly past me on account of the narrowness of the channel. Most
birds under similar circumstances fancy themselves pursued, and become
suspiciously uneasy; but, instead of growing nervous about it, he made
his usual dippings, and sang one of his most tranquil strains. When
observed within a few yards their eyes are seen to express remarkable
gentleness and intelligence; but they seldom allow so near a view
unless one wears clothing of about the same color as the rocks and
trees, and knows how to sit still. On one occasion, while rambling
along the shore of a mountain lake, where the birds, at least those
born that season, had never seen a man, I sat down to rest on a large
stone close to the water’s edge, upon which it seemed the ouzels and
sandpipers were in the habit of alighting when they came to feed on
that part of the shore, and some of the other birds also, when they
came down to wash or drink. In a few minutes, along came a whirring
Ouzel and alighted on the stone beside me, within reach of my hand.
Then suddenly observing me, he stooped nervously as if about to fly on
the instant, but as I remained as motionless as the stone, he gained
confidence, and looked me steadily in the face for about a minute, then
flew quietly to the outlet and began to sing. Next came a sandpiper and
gazed at me with much the same guileless expression of eye as the
Ouzel. Lastly, down with a swoop came a Steller’s jay out of a
fir-tree, probably with the intention of moistening his noisy throat.
But instead of sitting confidingly as my other visitors had done, he
rushed off at once, nearly tumbling heels over head into the lake in
his suspicious confusion, and with loud screams roused the
neighborhood.
Love for song-birds, with their sweet human voices, appears to be more
common and unfailing than love for flowers. Every one loves flowers to
some extent, at least in life’s fresh morning, attracted by them as
instinctively as humming-birds and bees. Even the young Digger Indians
have sufficient love for the brightest of those found growing on the
mountains to gather them and braid them, as decorations for the hair.
And I was glad to discover, through the few Indians that could be
induced to talk on the subject, that they have names for the wild rose
and the lily, and other conspicuous flowers, whether available as food
or otherwise. Most men, however, whether savage or civilized, become
apathetic toward all plants that have no other apparent use than the
use of beauty. But fortunately one’s first instinctive love of
song-birds is never wholly obliterated, no matter what the influences
upon our lives may be. I have often been delighted to see a pure,
spiritual glow come into the countenances of hard business-men and old
miners, when a song-bird chanced to alight near them. Nevertheless, the
little mouthful of meat that swells out the breasts of some song-birds
is too often the cause of their death. Larks and robins in particular
are brought to market in hundreds. But fortunately the Ouzel has no
enemy so eager to eat his little body as to follow him into the
mountain solitudes. I never knew him to be chased even by hawks.
An acquaintance of mine, a sort of foot-hill mountaineer, had a pet
cat, a great, dozy, overgrown creature, about as broad-shouldered as a
lynx. During the winter, while the snow lay deep, the mountaineer sat
in his lonely cabin among the pines smoking his pipe and wearing the
dull time away. Tom was his sole companion, sharing his bed, and
sitting beside him on a stool with much the same drowsy expression of
eye as his master. The good-natured bachelor was content with his hard
fare of soda-bread and bacon, but Tom, the only creature in the world
acknowledging dependence on him, must needs be provided with fresh
meat. Accordingly he bestirred himself to contrive squirrel-traps, and
waded the snowy woods with his gun, making sad havoc among the few
winter birds, sparing neither robin, sparrow, nor tiny nuthatch, and
the pleasure of seeing Tom eat and grow fat was his great reward.
One cold afternoon, while hunting along the river-bank, he noticed a
plain-feathered little bird skipping about in the shallows, and
immediately raised his gun. But just then the confiding songster began
to sing, and after listening to his summery melody the charmed hunter
turned away, saying, “Bless your little heart, I can’t shoot you, not
even for Tom.”
[Illustration: YOSEMITE BIRDS, SNOW-BOUND AT THE FOOT OF INDIAN
CAÑON.]
Even so far north as icy Alaska, I have found my glad singer. When I
was exploring the glaciers between Mount Fairweather and the Stikeen
River, one cold day in November, after trying in vain to force a way
through the innumerable icebergs of Sum Dum Bay to the great glaciers
at the head of it, I was weary and baffled and sat resting in my canoe
convinced at last that I would have to leave this part of my work for
another year. Then I began to plan my escape to open water before the
young ice which was beginning to form should shut me in. While I thus
lingered drifting with the bergs, in the midst of these gloomy
forebodings and all the terrible glacial desolation and grandeur, I
suddenly heard the well-known whir of an Ouzel’s wings, and, looking
up, saw my little comforter coming straight across the ice from the
shore. In a second or two he was with me, flying three times round my
head with a happy salute, as if saying, “Cheer up, old friend; you see
I’m here, and all’s well.” Then he flew back to the shore, alighted on
the topmost jag of a stranded iceberg, and began to nod and bow as
though he were on one of his favorite boulders in the midst of a sunny
Sierra cascade.
The species is distributed all along the mountain-ranges of the Pacific
Coast from Alaska to Mexico, and east to the Rocky Mountains.
Nevertheless, it is as yet comparatively little known. Audubon and
Wilson did not meet it. Swainson was, I believe, the first naturalist
to describe a specimen from Mexico. Specimens were shortly afterward
procured by Drummond near the sources of the Athabasca River, between
the fifty-fourth and fifty-sixth parallels; and it has been collected
by nearly all of the numerous exploring expeditions undertaken of late
through our Western States and Territories; for it never fails to
engage the attention of naturalists in a very particular manner.
Such, then, is our little cinclus, beloved of every one who is so
fortunate as to know him. Tracing on strong wing every curve of the
most precipitous torrents from one extremity of the Sierra to the
other; not fearing to follow them through their darkest gorges and
coldest snow-tunnels; acquainted with every waterfall, echoing their
divine music; and throughout the whole of their beautiful lives
interpreting all that we in our unbelief call terrible in the
utterances of torrents and storms, as only varied expressions of God’s
eternal love.