You sit beside a singing stream
Thruout the summer day
And close your little eyes and dream
The happy hours away.
And when a pain on your inside
Declares it's time to sup,
You swoop athwart the rippling tide
And scoop a troutlet up.

I watch you swirling thru the spray,
A flash of white and blue;
I watch you catch your wriggling prey
And how I envy you.
Would your delightful lot were mine,
Among the trees to lurk,
And all the summer long combine
My pleasure and my work!
Montague

Most fishermen are broad and tolerant. They admit this gentleman of the clattering reel to their circle with honor, because what is sport to them means life to him. But even among fishermen there is the occasional hornpout who thinks the bird is killing trout which should go into his creel. Of course they catch some trout — even their keen eyes cannot distinguish the species while twenty or more feet above water. Trout are swift and for one fontanalis a dozen useless species are caught. In fact Kingfishers destroy many trout enemies and only cheap humans destroy them.

As soon as young can go it on their own, they separate and each bird locates a section of hunting stream: there seems to be an entente which concedes the rights of each. Food is caught with bill, by a swift high dive. Some are less expert marksmen than others. I watched a fully grown bird (probably young of the year) miss his strike nine times in succession!

Occasionally they are killed by striking at a fish beneath thin ice.