lake to water some adjoining meadows, and by mere chance when on my homeward way I followed its course for a quarter of a mile. I had long given up all thought of the ducks, seeking only the shortest way across the grazing marshes, when a wild commotion of wings drew my eyes towards a swampy hollow a couple of gunshots ahead, from which to my amazement the flock clattered up like one bird and thundered away. While I was trying one end of the reed-bed they had doubtless slipped out from the other, and paddling up this obviously negligible water-way, made good their escape.

On this occasion I noticed that one bird, probably the drake that had been the first to rise, alighted on the water considerably nearer to me than the others, as though the better to observe my movements, and doubtless it was his suspicious espionage which kept the flock informed. He was, I think, the only one that had actually seen me, which accounted for his peculiar vigilance. My own experience does not bear out the popular notion that wild fowl post sentinels or anything of that kind. One often sees birds on the outskirts of a feeding flock which appear to be acting in some such capacity, but observation has convinced me that these are either full-fed members who have withdrawn from the crowd or late arrivals, newcomers hanging round, a little uncertain of their reception. I have repeatedly noticed, moreover, that when one of these supposed sentinels sniffs danger, as often as not he slips away and says nothing. Doubtless, outside birds become sentinels automatically; but as for any deliberate attempt at organisation, such theories originate from fairy tales. Any attempt to humanise Nature leads inevitably to a false conception of the whole scheme of things in the animal kingdom, which works upon far simpler but no less wonderful lines.

Concerning the pochard, this species is described in Mr Thorburn's book as 'not so wary as some others of its family.' It is worthy of remark, however, that in one respect at least this bird is particularly wideawake. Pochards are, I believe, the only ducks that cannot be taken in large numbers in a decoy. They can be enticed into the 'pipe' just as readily as other ducks, and appear to take an even livelier interest in the gambols of the

decoy dog, and when the fowler-if one can rightly apply the term to any one who takes birds by such means-discloses himself they dash up the narrowing passage with all the reckless abandonment of the mallard. But when all too soon the end is reached. and the meshes of the fateful funnel net obstruct their further passage, then comes the difference. While mallard, widgeon, and teal beat into the net with frenzied wing, becoming more and more hopelessly entangled, pochards almost invariably 'fly back,' and heedless of the fowler, retrace their way down the pipe and out to safety. A drop-net across the passage is sometimes tried, I am told, but in that case they merely dive under the obstacle and pass unscathed.

The dog's part in decoy work is an interesting one, and I have often wondered how the idea originated, and what in the first place suggested it. Was it taken from Nature? Who shall say? We only know that similar methods have been practised in the wild since time immemorial. Readers of The Jungle Book' will remember the big python's hunger dance, by which even the panther and the bear were affected. That was precisely the same thing on a larger scale, nor is the power to attract' its victims confined to snakes. The fox, a past-master of such craft, knows how to bring tame or wild ducks to shore by employing tactics differing little from those of the dog at the 'jumps.' Mr Long, in his admirable book Beasts of the Field,' gives a most attractive description of the proceeding. A cat again lures small birds to grief by executing a series of body passes, and the same performance is acted on a minor scale by a common weasel. We call it curiosity which induces birds to approach an animal under such circumstances, and say that a snake exercises a form of hypnotism, but in each case both process and effect are identical.

6

Whether it is really a case of attraction' at all is open to question. Flocks of birds, as everybody knows, will mob any rapacious creature, and I am by no means sure that hunting animals have not learned to turn this to advantage. If so, therein lies the whole secret. For example, when a flock of finches catch sight of a cat or stoat prowling through the woods, there is an immediate

outcry, and all within hearing hurry up to denounce the silent-footed marauder. For some time the noise continues, sounding now here, now there, but at last it becomes stationary, which means that the exasperated animal is facing its tormentors. The clamour increases, and one can imagine the birds, emboldened by numbers, and growing more excited every moment, closing in upon their enemy. Then suddenly there is a very different cry, a note eloquent of tragedy, and as if by magic quiet is restored. One of the flock, venturing too near, has paid the penalty. The spell, if spell there was, is broken. The remainder scatter silently, and so ends the story.

More than once I have heard or seen the little drama enacted. The most notable case, perhaps, was that of a raven being mobbed by jackdaws, which I witnessed on the coast not long ago. But take a much more homely instance. Tether a ferret in any farmyard, and watch the effect upon the hens. If only one or two are near they will scuttle away as fast as possible; but if several birds are there one will see a curious thing. After studying the suspicious-looking white object from a respectful distance and a great deal of discussion, the hens eventually gather courage, and commence a general advance upon the stranger. The ferret, fully alive to the situation, either rolls about to attract more notice, or lies still, feigning sleep, watching the oncomers covertly through half-closed eyes. Nearer and nearer the hens approach, but more cautiously as the circle narrows, until the boldest edges forward to try the effect of a judicious peck. Then it is time to interfere, or tragedy will follow.

Old-fashioned gamekeepers have a very simple device for circumventing magpies, which, even the naturalist must admit, can become a little too plentiful at times. A white ferret is taken out and tethered by a long line in some open place among the plantations. The keeper takes cover near and waits. If it is a sunny afternoon the ferret frisks and gambols about in a manner certain sooner or later to catch the quick eye of any magpie that happens to be in the neighbourhood. Then the excitement begins. It is the stoat and small bird story over again, and well worth anybody's while to make the

experiment for the interesting glimpse of bird life which it affords. By this means I have had as many as thirty magpies and jays round me at one time.

Even to-day a spice of mystery or romance attends the comings and goings of wild fowl to and from our shores. We accept the presence of this species or that at the proper season, and realise perhaps that it hails from some lone far land, across hundreds of leagues of continent and ocean. Of the actual journey, however, we know nothing, and the more one studies the whole principle of migration the more fascinating it becomes. It has always struck me as a most remarkable thing that the great autumnal movement is led, not by veterans who might be expected to know the immemorial lines of travel, but by immature birds which precede their seniors by days or even weeks. What induces them to start upon their adventurous journey without example or precedent? How do they know what course to steer, and how many of the little voyagers perish by the way?

Not long ago a neighbour of mine picked up a rednecked grebe, which he found lying upon dry land in a part of the country where this species is quite unknown. It was obviously a migrant which had sustained some injury in the course of its flight. It still lived, however, and he carried it to a neighbouring pond, where it was seen several times within the next week, and appeared to be recovering. Then came the day when it was not to be found, and we concluded that it had resumed its lonely way. What, one wonders, was its story?

A host of migrants under full headway is an unforgettable sight. Even more impressive is the sound of innumerable wings, passing in the stillness of night. Years ago on the far western plains—a wonderful country for wild fowl-I was camping near a chain of big lakes on one of the main lines of migration from the north. A party of six had gathered round the fire, yarning or 'swapping lies' as it was more generally termed. It was getting late. Even the yapping of the coyotes which continues well into the night had quieted down, and for a long while no wild sound had broken the immense brooding stillness of the waste. Suddenly for no apparent reason a dog, lying near the fire, pricked

his ears and began to exhibit unmistakable signs of interest in something. Needless to say, we were all agog on the instant, but so far as we could see or hear nothing stirred, and we were about to resume our edifying conversation when out of the dark distance came a faint murmur, like a ripple of wind among forest trees. It sounded miles away at first, but drew rapidly nearer, sweeping on through the night with the eerie crescendo effect of a coming flood. It might indeed have been a rising hurricane, for the winds work strange fancies across those illimitable plains. There was something too rhythmical about it, however; one's thoughts turned rather to the legendary tales of Hiawatha or Clote Scarpe, when some mundane member of the party murmured 'Geese.'

Instantly every eye was turned upwards. Overhead the heavens were clear-brilliant even-but though the thunder of wings now filled the air one could see nothing. Yet all the while high above, somewhere between the trees and the cold stars, we knew that hundreds of splendid living creatures were winnowing by in seemingly unending procession. What all the birds were, or how long the flight lasted, I cannot say. It seemed like hours, but we took no account of time. It was not a continuous stream of birds. They came in waves, with intervals of varying lengths between. Sometimes for several minutes silence would be restored, then again the distant murmur, gradually swelling into the soul-stirring rhythm of strong wings, and once more the wild weird rush of unseen multitudes over our heads. It was an experience to be remembered.

DOUGLAS GORDON.