Uvas. After three hours they had only clapped their wings, or exchanged
posts. The season's end in the vast dim valley of the San Joaquin is
palpitatingly hot, and the air breathes like cotton wool. Through it all
the buzzards sit on the fences and low hummocks, with wings spread
fanwise for air. There is no end to them, and they smell to heaven.
Their heads droop, and all their communication is a rare, horrid croak.

The increase of wild creatures is in proportion to the things they feed
upon: the more carrion the more buzzards. The end of the third
successive dry year bred them beyond belief. The first year quail mated
sparingly; the second year the wild oats matured no seed; the third,
cattle died in their tracks with their heads towards the stopped
watercourses. And that year the scavengers were as black as the plague
all across the mesa and up the treeless, tumbled hills. On clear days
they betook themselves to the upper air, where they hung motionless for
hours. That year there were vultures among them, distinguished by the
white patches under the wings. All their offensiveness notwithstanding,
they have a stately flight. They must also have what pass for good
qualities among themselves, for they are social, not to say clannish.

It is a very squalid tragedy,--that of the dying brutes and the
scavenger birds. Death by starvation is slow. The heavy-headed,
rack-boned cattle totter in the fruitless trails; they stand for long,
patient intervals; they lie down and do not rise. There is fear in their
eyes when they are first stricken, but afterward only intolerable
weariness. I suppose the dumb creatures know, nearly as much of death as
do their betters, who have only the more imagination. Their
even-breathing submission after the first agony is their tribute to its
inevitableness. It needs a nice discrimination to say which of the
basket-ribbed cattle is likest to afford the next meal, but the