After some time, about three weeks perhaps, I have found the eggshells beneath the great cypress tree, cast out of the nest by the intelligent and attentive mother, and floating on the green slime of the stagnant pool. Climbing to the nest itself, I have seen the tender young clad in down far softer than our sea-island cottons, writhing their slender and tremulous necks, and with open mouths and extended pouches seeking, as all infants are wont to seek, the food suited to their delicate frame. Then, retiring to some concealed spot, I have seen the mother arrive with a supply of finely masticated nutriment, compounded of various fishes from the lake, and furnish each of her progeny by regurgitation with its due proportion. Thus, also, I have watched the growth of the younglings, marking their daily progress, which varied according to the changes of temperature and the state of the atmosphere. At length, after waiting many days in succession, I have seen them stand, in an almost erect posture, on a space scarcely large enough to contain them. The parents seemed aware of the condition of their brood, and, affectionate as they still appeared to be, I thought their manner towards them was altered, and I felt grieved. Indeed, sorely grieved I was when, next week, I saw them discharge, as it were, their children, and force them from the nest into the waters that were spread below. It is true that, previous to this, I had seen the young Anhingas trying the power of their wings as they stood upright on the nest, flapping them many minutes at a time; yet, although thus convinced that they were nearly in a state to provide for themselves, it was not without a feeling of despondency that I saw them hurled into the air, and alight on the water. But, Reader, Nature in all this had acted beneficially; and I afterwards found that in thus expelling their young so soon, the old birds had in view to rear another brood in the same spot, before the commencement of unfavourable weather. Many writers have described what they have been pleased to call the habits of the Anhinga; nay, some have presumed to offer comments upon them, and to generalize and form theories thereon, or even to inform us gravely and oracularly what they ought to be, when the basis of all their fancies was merely a dried skin and feathers appended. Leaving these ornithologists for the present to amuse themselves in their snug closets, I proceed to detail the real habits of this curious bird, as I have observed and studied them in Nature.