Occasionally,
although shy on account of being persistently hunted, under pressure
of extreme hunger in the very coldest weather when the snow was
deepest they ventured into barnyards and even approached the doorsteps
of houses, searching for any sort of scraps and crumbs, as if
piteously begging for food. One of our neighbors saw a flock come
creeping up through the snow, unable to fly, hardly able to walk, and
while approaching the door several of them actually fell down and
died; showing that birds, usually so vigorous and apparently
independent of fortune, suffer and lose their lives in extreme weather
like the rest of us, frozen to death like settlers caught in
blizzards. None of our neighbors perished in storms, though many had
feet, ears, and fingers frost-nipped or solidly frozen.
As soon as the lake ice melted, we heard the lonely cry of the loon,
one of the wildest and most striking of all the wilderness sounds, a
strange, sad, mournful, unearthly cry, half laughing, half wailing.
Nevertheless the great northern diver, as our species is called, is a
brave, hardy, beautiful bird, able to fly under water about as well as
above it, and to spear and capture the swiftest fishes for food.
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