A strange, uncanny scream rang out over the sullen waters of Black Lake one night in June, and, although there was no human being near the desolate spot to hear the awful cry, it was quite scary enough to startle certain of the wild inhabitants all alongshore. There were others among them, however, who were unafraid; they had heard the same cry before and recognised it. They knew that Mahug, the Great King Loon, and his wild mate had arrived at the lake, where each year they came from warmer climes, to build their hidden nest in some secluded spot among the rushes.  
This lonely spot had always suited the King Loon so well that, no matter how far off he had wintered, he invariably made for Black Lake during nesting time. Mahug, like all his tribe, was a mighty diver and, for water-fowl, he had very fashionable habits, spending a portion of each year near the salt sea, usually camping upon some desolate island, fishing, swimming, and diving with thousands of other water-fowl, yet never mingling at all familiarly with them, or encouraging acquaintances in a sociable way, because the loon is a very solitary bird. So, when nesting time came, Mahug always went off as far away from the crowd as he possibly could go. Quite frequently he and his mate would fly thousands of miles in order to be exclusive and alone. The old loon was a large, imposing bird, his wing and back feathers of a glossy, metallic black, while his beautiful breast was dazzling, pearly white, the feathers very soft and thick. When Mahug stood erect, at first sight, he appeared to be wearing a dark coat thrown back from a pearl-white waistcoat. His head was beautifully marked, the top of fine, iridescent feathers, the neck ringed about with green and bronze. On the wing, you never would have suspected how very awkward Mahug could be upon his feet. On land he just waddled about in the most ungainly fashion, choosing to fly, usually, rather than walk, because his clumsy webbed feet were not intended for tramping. They were set so far back upon his body that they were of small use to him excepting when he used them for paddles in the water.
 
Mahug was in his element in water or upon the wing. And my, how the old King could dive! In fact, the loon family are all noted divers, for they not only dive deeper than other birds, but they can also stay under water a long time. So quickly could old Mahug dive, that several times in his life when a hunter had fired at him, even before the bullet touched water, the old King Loon was already deep down in the depths of the lake among the snake-like lily roots, safe.
 
This June when Mahug and his mate reached the shores of Black Lake, he sent his great cry of triumph abroad, for he was glad to be there. Then he and his mate nested low among the sedges and rested for the night, but the very next morning, even before the fog lifted from the lake, both set about their nest building. Right upon the ground they built it, and not very carefully, I am afraid, their main idea being to conceal it cleverly behind a thick curtain of reeds and matted water-weeds, but not so very far from the water. In due time three baby loons pipped their dark green shells, and queer looking little specimens of birds they were—bare, homely and always hungry.
 
Although it appeared desolate and lonely enough, still, if one but knew, back in the thick undergrowth about the lake, hidden by thick jungles of blackberry vines and dark spruces, there were many secret coverts and dens where the wild of the forest made their homes. The lake itself was almost completely surrounded by treacherous, oozy bogs and morasses, so that it was seldom visited by man. For this very reason the wild things felt safe, and the old King Loon had especially selected the spot, for the loon is the wildest of all wild water-fowl.
 
Few of the other birds cared to meet the loon in battle, because of the mighty strength of his great wings, which could soon beat out the life of anything upon which they descended, while his heavy coat of feathers protected their wearer well. So when the loon sent its uncanny scream across the lake, more than one timid, wild thing cowered close to the ground and shook with sudden fear.
 
 DOWN LIKE AN AVALANCHE HE CAME, SNATCHING THE MINK IN HIS BEAK. 
DOWN LIKE AN AVALANCHE HE CAME, 
SNATCHING THE MINK IN HIS BEAK.
As soon as the young loons could tumble over the edge of their comfortless nest among the sedges, they made for the near-by water, and speedily began to imitate their elders, diving far down among the matted water-weeds and chasing minnows and little chunky perch, which they would gobble at one mouthful. At first Mahug and his mate watched the young loons, taking pains to give them diving lessons, and then encouraging them to take short flights, as soon as their wing feathers sprouted. Gradually the old birds left them more to themselves. So it happened one day that one of the young loons waddled forth from the nest and began to follow in the wake of a heron who was leisurely fishing alongshore. The loon mounted upon a large round stone, as he supposed; he did not notice that the stone moved a trifle. It did, and that which the young loon took for a mud-caked stone, was nothing less than a very old, giant snapping turtle, which lay there sunning himself. So old was this particular turtle that his flippers were covered with large scales and his shell looked to be fairly moss-covered. Over the top of the shell waddled the young loon, while the old turtle, without moving its ugly, snake-like head, watched with its hateful beady eyes every movement of the loon. It climbed over the top of the shell and when it came within reach of the turtle's long neck, like a flash it was snapped up by the old fellow. The heron gave a loud "kreay, kreay" of alarm, but no one heard him, so when the old loons got back to the nest one of the baby loons was missing. They flew out over the water, searching, screaming loudly, calling in and out among the sedges and tussocks, but of course the young loon never answered their wild calls.
 
Mahug strongly suspected someone of the muskrat family, so he began watching a colony of them which had pitched their huts alongshore. Even at night, especially if it was moonlight, the old King Loon would skim low over the water, uttering scream after scream as he followed the trails of the muskrats swimming about the lake. If Mahug had caught one of them he would have made short work of it, so furious was he. But somehow the muskrats always escaped, for they kept sentinels upon duty, who always slapped their tails upon the water, at which signal the muskrats always vanished.
 
Almost before Mahug had forgotten about the disappearance of the first small loon, another one disappeared. This time Mahug was quite certain that the old bald-headed eagle, which lived far above upon a cliff the other side of the lake, had gone off with it. Now there were several young eaglets up there on the cliff and the old birds foraged for them all day long. They took anything they could find upon the shore, especially if it were young, tender and unprotected. Mahug and the old eagle crossed each other in the air and they had one terrible battle together, but the eagle proved to be more than a match for the loon. The King of the Air had sharp talons and a razor-like beak which tore through the heavy feathers of the loon and bit into his flesh sharply, so at length he had to settle down among the sedges and own himself beaten for once.
 
The summer moon, round and yellow, came peeping over the tops of the tallest spruces upon the summit of Mount Cushman and lighted a broad path right across Black Lake. Out in the centre of the lake the horn-pouts and pickerel were leaping, and over in the shadows on the far shore Mahug, the old loon, screamed and suddenly dived for a fish in the moonlight. All manner of wild things of fur and feathers were stirring. The muskrats were playing, squeaking merrily and chasing each other in and out of their huts and leaving long silvery trails behind them as they swam about. Back in the thickets of rushes dozed one lonely little loon, last of the brood of Mahug. Too young to venture forth upon a moonlight fishing trip, it cuddled down flat, its webbed feet beneath its scantily feathered body, uttering a plaintive little sound whenever it heard the old loons screaming out on the lake.
 
Because of these little lonely cries, the dark, fur-clad stranger who had been feeling its way alongshore, in and out among the tall reeds, paused, erecting its small ears, trying to locate the whereabouts of the sound. Long and lithe of body was the stranger, a full-grown mink. Its dark fur coat mingled well with the shadows, but when a streak of moonlight touched its breast, its pure white breast-plate of fur shone dazzlingly white. The mink's legs were short, so it crouched low along the ground as it crept nearer and nearer the lonely nest among the reeds.
 
The next instant it poked its hateful snout through an opening and saw the loon. Already its fetid breath reached the little loon, which gave a startled, whimpering call out into the night. The call had been heard just in time. Like a great black shadow something flew across the strip of moonlight, and with a wild whirl of giant wings the old King Loon charged for the nest. Instantly his fierce eyes sighted the sneaking mink, then down like a perfect avalanche he came, snatching the surprised mink in his beak and soaring out over the water. Somehow the mink managed to free its neck and its sharp teeth met in the pearly breast feathers of the old loon. For a second it seemed as though Mahug would loosen his hold upon the mink, but, instead, uttering a terrific scream of rage and vengeance, which fairly awoke the echoes alongshore, the great bird plunged straight into the water and dived and dived; far down into the muddy depths he sank, never loosing his terrible hold upon the mink. Now the mink is quite as much at home in the water as a muskrat. But never had the old King Loon stayed under water so long before. In vain his mate screamed for him alongshore, but only the whip-poor-wills answered her call. At last, when she had almost given him up, from out the centre of the lake arose old Mahug, amid a perfect shower of whirling spray, and he was alone. He had been able to stay under water longer than the mink.
 
Mahug joined his mate, and then, as it was late and the moon was very low, the two great birds gave up their fishing and went back to their nest in the reeds. There in the darkness, with no light but the little flitting fireflies twinkling in and out among the sedges, while the whip-poor-wills sang a lullaby, they guarded their one nestling through the night. And when the time came to leave Black Lake, three loons flew away together.