Water-birds
disported themselves in the mud-banks and sloughs. The smaller birds
seemed to pay little attention to the nearness of the hawks.
Kingfisher perched on limbs overhanging the quiet pools, ready to drop
at the faintest movement on the opaque water; the road-runner chased
the festive lizard on the desert land back of the willows. Here also
in the mesquite and giant cactus were thrush and Western meadow-larks
and mocking-birds mimicking the call of the cat-bird. Down in the
brush by the river was the happy little water-ousel, as cheerful in
his way as the dumpy-built musical canyon wren. The Mexican crossbill
appeared to have little fear of the migrating Northern shrike. There
were warblers, cardinals, tanagers, waxwings, song-sparrows, and
chickadees. Flitting droves of bush-tit dropped on to slender weeds,
scarcely bending them, so light were they. Then in a minute they were
gone. In the swamps or marshes were countless red-winged blackbirds.
The most unobservant person could not help but see birds here. I had
expected to find water-fowl, for the Colorado delta is their breeding
place; but I little expected to find so many land birds in the trees
along the river. Instead of having a lonesome trip, every minute was
filled with something new, interesting, and beautiful and I was having
the time of my life.
I camped that night at Picachio,--meaning the Pocket,--eighty miles
below Ahrenburg. This is still a mining district, but the pockets
containing nuggets of gold which gave the place its name seem to have
all been discovered at the time of the boom; the mining now done is in
quartz ledges up on the sides of grim, mineral-stained hills.
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