 Section 7 of Notes of an East Coast Naturalist by Arthur Henry Patterson. This Librabox recording is in the public domain. BIRD NOTES, PART 7. FLIGHTS OF WOOD PIDGES A marked increase in the numbers of the wood pigeon, Columba Palumbus, has taken place in Norfolk. Attributable, Stevenson says, in a great degree to the extension of our fur plantations, added to their immunity at the present time from the attacks of their natural enemies, crows, magpies, and hawks, now almost exterminated as residents amongst us through the strict preservation of game. NUMBERS BUILD IN THE NEIGHBORING COUNTRY The coo of the ring dove is perhaps the most familiar sound to be heard in the wooded surroundings of the broadlands, and the noisy flip-flap of its wings is frequently heard as one moves along by the country roadside. At all periods of the year, even when the close season has made the market bear of wildfowl, wood pigeons are common objects of the countrymen's stall. There can be no doubt that our homebred birds roam widely in search of food, whilst arrivals from the north of Europe add largely to their numbers in the fall of the year. Two enormous flocks of this species passed over Yarmouth on the 22nd and 23rd of December, 1893. There were thousands. I considered at the time that they were fleeing from severe weather in their native horns, and made a note of it, suggesting that it would most likely follow in their wake. As a matter of fact, in a very short time heavy winds and snowstorms visited us. The birds settled in the vicinity, and the Saturday's market was glattered with them. Thousands again arrived on the 12th of December, 1898, and passing straight on over the town, made inland. I visited the Saturday's market, expecting to find our rural sportsmen had been busy, but none were on sale, so that they must have gone, being probably unwirried, a considerable distance inland. Unexpected pleasure. The ornithologist has his delights, and one of them is to break in, as it were, upon a scene that delights his eyes, such as, for instance, when I myself, paddling upstream on the 15th of May, 1893, on the top of the flood tide, saw upon the lumps still uncovered by water, a congregation of no less than 18 black turns, more than 50 turnstones, several common and exotic turns, a number of dunlins, grey plovers, wimbrill, and godwits, and, not least worthy of a glance, three spoonbills. These birds had gathered during the night on the flats to feed, breaking their journey northwards, and as the tide gradually drove them from the lower portions, they made for the highest remaining muds, to take a rest before still pursuing their flight, or to wait for the falling water to again lay bare their feeding grounds. On the evening of the 8th of May, 1895, I put out again for a cruise among the mud flats, when I came across quite a birds. There were some 34 black turns, 14 turnstones, one spoonbill. Two days before, 12 had departed from Braden, and 77 godwits, bar-tailed, all together on the lumps, besides a fair sprinkling of grey plovers and wimbrill, and a considerable number of black-headed gulls. On being disturbed, the turns rose up screaming, and mounting high in the air, made away in a northeast direction. On the next evening, I counted 100 godwits in one flock. When taking a stroll along Braden walls on the 15th of August, 1898, I observed a flat crowded with birds. It was a very warm, still evening. Lying hidden in the tall grass that covered the walls, I watched them with interest for some time through my glasses, and with a little patience made an estimate of their number. There were, as follow, 24 herons, over 200 curlews, and nearly 2,000 gulls, mostly asleep, eight common sandpipers, one green sandpiper, and one green shank. After a spell of wind in October 1900, a number of gulls trooped into Braden for a much-needed rest. When sailing by the flats, I passed several hundreds, mostly greater saddle-backs and herring-gulls. Who shall not say the unexpected sight of a flock of spoon-bills, from six even up to a dozen, flying by in single file, or feeding in regular order, is anything but a pleasurable one. On the 14th of January, 1899, I took a ramble in the same vicinity. Observing an unusually light-colored gull preening its feathers, and apparently listlessly pottering about on the mud, close under the stone wall, I crept along until within distance of it, and cautiously looked over. It goes without saying that the sight of an Iceland girl making itself quite at home on the mud-flats was as pleasant as it was unusual, within two hours after a local wildfowler had seen and slain it. Whether his pleasure in knocking it over exceeded mine in watching the bird enjoying life and liberty is open to question. When sailing across Brayden on the 5th of April 1900, I passed three grandly plumaged herons past asleep at the entrance of a drain. The flats everywhere were dotted with dunlands. I saw a number of knots and curlew sandpipers. Gulls and curlews were napping together, and three swans were feeding at the edge of a run. A peregrine falcon stooped at half a dozen ducks, but did not strike, being baffled by a flock of noisy gulls who mobbed him. When shooting on the marshes in the neighbourhood of Ludham on the 11th of November 1903, a friend of mine came unexpectedly upon a flock of half a score short-eared owls which scattered at his approach. For the moment he did not identify the species, so brought down a couple, another gun doing the same. He was vexed directly after to recognise them as these most useful birds. They had probably but recently arrived from Scandinavia. On examining the ground he discovered a number of ejected pellets of remains of field mice. The flooding of the marshes had been disastrous to many field mice that had been driven to such small patches of raised turf as remained above the swamp. Here they were falling an easy prey to the rapacious birds. My friend repeated that the way they shot up and in broad daylight simply surprised him. I saw three of the slain, finding them a male and two females. Hard weather and wild birds. There was always an interest attached to the perusal of a diary recording the doings and happenings of years gone by, more especially if it is penned by one's own hand. This thought occurred to me in perusing my notebook for 1894. The following terse notes chronicle my observations of the first few days of that year. Weather and birds. January the first came in rough and cold. Today, the second, snowing and blowing. Wind east to northeast. Shell ducks numerous in roadstead. Dunlins in units along beach in morning. Field fares plentiful around town today. Shot several for eating purposes. Considered fine for dumplings. Lap wings hard up. Shot a full snipe at dusk only three yards off. With my old converted muzzle rifle. Force of wind and flight made it fall at my feet. Two nights a regular ruffian. January the fourth. Weather thickening and growing colder. Frost intense. Broads freezing over. Wildfowl becoming numerous in roads. Dunlins on beach. Snipe going southward. January the fifth. Saw more ducks today than ever before in one day in my life. Hundreds upon hundreds. Gulls leading northwards. Ducks working southwards. Some merganses. Many scalps. Widgen. Even crested grebes plentiful. And all manner of birds. Hundreds of stints or dunlins going south. January the seventh. Braden. Salt water estuary. Frozen over. Hooded crows. Sharp set. Prowing around capturing wounded shorebirds. Coots flocking to salt water. A coot was shot on North River, but falling into a wake in the ice was not retrieved. Some hooded crows hauled it out on the ice and tore it to pieces. Small patches of blood and odd feathers on the Braden ice pointed to avine tragedies of shorebirds dead, wounded or harried down victims that had been devoured by crows. Sandalings on foreshore. Numbers of dab chicks wherever open water. Several shots. Coots croaking at night on Braden in severe rhyme frost. Later on in the month a break in the weather occurred and the birds scattered, returning to their old haunts. A friend of mine, recently deceased, was an ardent amateur punt gunner. The severest weather found him on Braden looking for a fowl or two. A favourite reminiscence of his was of a poor little kingfisher, hard up for a dinner, that came and alighted on the end of his punt gun, and from it, as a perch, fished for nearly a couple of hours in the open water of the drain in which he lay moored. Through the intensity of the frost the metal was so cold that he hesitated to lay his fingers upon it. This same friend, just before his fatal illness, even when in failing health, made spasmodic visits to his favourite Braden. One evening in November 1901, I found a leaf from a notebook slipped through my letterbox. I give it as written, to show how fascinating, even to a dying man, remains the love of natural observation. Mr. Patterson, dear sir, 16th of November, seen leading Braden about 11.30 am. First three swans, and then 34 or 35, and another lot of 24. Also one goose. The latter was killed. Hundreds of golden plover and lap-wings, all leading north-west. Yours truly. H.B. My own entries for that day are as follow. Swans and geese. Went for a jolly afternoon on Braden. Wind, nor nor east. Fine but huge red clouds, like mountains, made the sky wild. Saw three swans. I fancy they were hoopers. Their note was a bad imitation of a curleuse. Also saw forty-five geese. Probably bean geese, in one flock flying above and around. A few lap-wings, one gooseander. The common sandpiper. No bird makes itself more conspicuous upon our Norfolk waterways in the finer portion of the year than this shrill-voiced, noisy, restless little wader. In spring and autumn, small parties, sometimes of as many as eight individuals, may be seen busily and with restless activity picking up the small crustaceans, young ditch prawns, heliman varians, that have passed into the river through the sluices that drain the marshes, and opossum shrimps that scur and frolic at the margin of the stream. As soon as a yacht or wary comes within the limit they consider safe for them, up they get with the ear-piercing pipings, and hurry on ahead to settle and feed until again disturbed. For a mile or two will they hurry along in this way, scarce ever thinking to double back, and so remain at peace. I had long suspected this bird of nesting in the neighbourhood of the broads, having noticed it with us all summer through. A strict watch had been kept, until at length a nest was discovered under a bush at Hickling on the 25th of May, 1897. Braden walls are a favourite resort of this species in the autumn. Some Woodcock notes Of late years there has been a decided falling off in the numbers of Woodcocks visiting us. Every gunner in my younger time had an ambition to boast of at least one Woodcock slain, and he who exceeded that number was not slow to draw out a certain feather, one of the underwing coverts, and stick it in the band of his hat. In some instances quite a row of these badges of prowess adorned the headgear of certain vain sportsmen. The habits of the Woodcock, although a secretive sort of a fellow, are too well known to need any comment thereon, but I have from time to time kept a record of its, to me, earliest known arrival in the autumn, and sundry incidents that have made its appearance somewhat remarkable. 1881. The first notified this year was on the 9th of September, a small dark variety, which I thought probably a British bread example. On the 20th of October one cut itself almost in halves by striking a telegraph wire in the night. 1883. On the 6th of October I have a note referring to one obtained a fortnight before that date. 1889. On the 6th of October of this year I have the following entry. It looked rather odd to see a Woodcock just arrived, hanging upon a poulterer's store with some widgen, while swallows were still on the wing overhead. 1890. Several seen, and some shot on the 20th of October, the previous night's arrivals. There had been a gale on the 18th, no less than 18 hanging on a stall on the 21st. On the same date a fagged-out individual, alighted on the rail of the pier, and attempted to rest awhile. Another dropped on the sands a week after. In a note for the 29th I have a record of several having been picked up exhausted, mostly on the sandhills. 1891. Another example picked up in a railway cutting, with breastbone cut in two. 1892. First one noted 11th of October. A note for the 8th records flocks of Hellsmartons flying continuously in a southerly direction. 1893. One seen on the 8th of October, and one killed on the 18th, had a bill measuring only two and a half inches in length. 1894. First Woodcock killed on the 3rd of October. One killed by a stone on the 15th. 1895. First seen 15th of October. The greatest number of woodcocks I have ever heard of as being locally killed by one man after a heavy immigration is nine. All obtained in one day on the marums by a gunner named Davey Birch. This was early in the 50s. Other appearances are as follow. 1896. 13th of October. 1897. 5th of October. 1898. 21st of October, when a completely decapitated example was found lying beneath the telegraph wire. 1903. 24th of October. Following their food. Many instances have been given of the wonderful way in which birds find out where food is in plenty. Whether they can communicate facts and ideas, or whether they trust to instinctive senses, I will not venture to suggest. I simply state facts. I have noticed year by year how, in the early mornings, troops of sparrows in summer betake themselves to the sands, to glean up crumbs and other edibles left the day before by the visitors. In the autumn too, they repair to the deans in search of various spiders and coleoptera that are peculiar to such situations, patrolling the ground in regular business-like fashion. When grey mullets were plentiful in Brayden in spring, in the first half of the last century, cormorants were commonly seen on the hunt for them. Every post used to hold one, said an old Braydener to me on one occasion. A farmer at Coaster, in December 1895, spread his fields with herring refuse. The gulls, black-headed gulls in particular, centred it out, and out of a tonne or two of it spread over the soil, devoured probably a fourth of it before he had time to plow it in. In the summer, almost as soon as a ditch has been fade out and the black mud has been thrown on either side, the green sandpiper, Totanus Ocropus, puts in an appearance and begins a search for worms and larvae upon it. I observed three of this locally lessening species at Morby on the 19th of August, 1895. On the 2nd of February, 1895, the land birds had an exceedingly hard time. The starlings were so tamed by hunger that they grubbed among the snow under the very eyes of the boys. Some bunches of them in the town prowled around and among the feet of the horses. The Thrush family, whose various members had been careless and wasteful over the Hawthorne berries, which at that time were familiar objects at the North End Gardens, and had strewn more than they ate on the ground and in the ditches below, were disconsolently searching for such as still remained, while they attacked the wreaths on the cemetery graves in order to satisfy their hunger with the berries they found upon them. A wretched Thrush, grumpily hopping along under a bank, was seized by a hungry rat, pulled screaming into its burrow and without a shadow of a doubt, was speedily devoured. Two young herons, very tame and not yet strong on the wing, had fallen in with a pool full of sticklebacks on the 29th of July, 1895. Here they were snapping them up to their heart's content. A large dragonfly on a fine sunny day in May, 1897, came gaily winging its way along the Bridge Road. A sparrow from a roof gutter saw it and gave chase. I never saw such doubling and cross-flying by chase and quarry. For some minutes the chase lasted, the insect dodging the bird so deftly that one could almost imagine it enjoyed being pursued. Eventually both turned the corner of a building and I lost sight of them. There was, after continuous heavy rains, a great deal of water on the marshes in December 1901. A great many drowned worms laid at the margin and in the shallows. Golden plovers and lap-wings became very numerous in the neighbourhood, drawn there by the plentiful supply of food. I am convinced that if individuals are incapable of conveying news, information, in fact, to their relatives, there must be many flights of birds passing and repassing in the dark hours and that they are gifted with some instinct, unknown to us, that directs their flight to places where food is in plenty. Whether seen to come or not, they do come, as I have in more than one instance pointed out. A sacred writer long ago declared that, where the carcass is, thither will the eagles be gathered together. At the period above referred to, I noted the dropping in of fieldfares to share at the water side the plentiful feast so unexpectedly provided. They mixed freely with the waders. Strange Companionships One of my earliest recollections is of a queer case of companionship between a lap-wing and a brahmer hen. The pee-wet had been wing-tipped and turned into a large garden, where, in a very short time, it became quite master of the situation, and was a source of annoyance to the old cock, who could not get a peck in anyhow, while the pert bird dodged between his legs and around him, as if for the very fun of it. The hen was quite a passive sort of pal to the lap-wing, who preferred its society, whether welcome or not, and usually spent its odd times, when not engaged in examining all the likely places for worms and vermin, in preening its feathers beside her. I had at one time a tame spoon-bill, that consorted with a quartet of large gulls in a netted area some quarter mile in circumference. Although at mealtimes the gulls more often than not devoured the sliced horse-beef thrown to them, while the stupid waiter was endeavouring to swallow a piece much too big for the capacity of its small gullet. The spoon-bills that visit Braden so frequently in spring and early summer invariably spend much of their sleeping time in the midst of a flock of gulls, and also show a decided preference for feeding in their society. A lady of my acquaintance was sitting on the beach one afternoon in September 1898 with a bunch of grapes on her lap, which she was eating. A sparrow most audaciously flew upon her knee and seized a grape with all the temerity of an old acquaintance. It goes without saying, it was not denied one. During my August holidays in 1903, I spent most of my time in my houseboat, moored in a drain in the centre of Braden. During the whole of that period, whenever the water fell or had not on the flood-tide reached the surface of the flats, a second-year blackheaded gull persisted in keeping company with me. Pieces thrown out from the table were gladly appropriated and added variety to the marine tidbits gleaned up on the flat. Nor did it choose to take fright at any demonstration I might make. I never before met with an instance where a gull forced its company upon man's society. Although, when moored on Ham Sounds in 1895, a wild duck hung around for the sake of what I chose to throw out. At the corner of the North Drain on Braden, a turnstone was busily engaged on the 21st of August 1900, turning over refuse and tangled bits of Zosterra marina in search of sandhoppers. A small lot of gunlins and ringed plovers, also intent on a breakfast, were profiting by its labours and snapped up some of the crustaceans that managed to escape the larger hunter. But they became so persistent in dodging around him, even to snapping up such as he wished for himself, that at length, out of sheer annoyance, finding his runs and pecks at them of no avail, he betook himself off to another location, whether he evidently hoped they would not follow him. There are some odd gatherings of birds on Braden now and again. A common habitat throws together most diverse species at times, but it was from selfish motives that in July 1901 an assemblage of rooks and gulls came about. A grey gull had found a bit of stale salt-beef, probably thrown out from a ship. He was industriously pinching off snips, and dragging and shaking it about, now backwards, now sideways. Around him had gathered thirteen rooks, all eager to snap up the fragments that might be shaken out of the quick reach of the seabird, who was not anxious to leave his joint for fear of losing it. The affair wound up eventually by three other gulls coming on the scene to dispute possession, when the sable hangers-on decamped, wisely leaving the gulls to settle matters and divide the spoil between them. At the time of writing, 1903, a neighbour of mine, who has a great liking for pet keeping, has a big brown retriever. With the fugitive idea that somehow he may establish a sort of amateur rookery, two or three rooks have been turned into the garden, each with one wing-cut. One bird was brought up from the nest, and a noisy, downy-headed little fellow he was. He followed his master, like a lap-dog, and spent most of his hours at first hanging and begging round the kitchen door. As he grew older and bolder, he betook himself to the dog's kennel, glad to pick up the scraps that fell from Carlo's bones. So familiar did he become, that he insisted upon sleeping in the kennel with the dog, and to sit at times, perched on the canine's back, cogitating. A second rook was added, and this too, profiting by the experiences of his predecessor, very soon joined the kennel-club. A third rook, a tied-out migrant from Scandinavia, was put with the others in October. It remains to be seen whether he will become as sociable and contented. End of Section 7. Section 8 of Notes of an East Coast Naturalist by Arthur Henry Paterson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Bird Notes. Part 8. THE LAND, DOTTERELL Before the break-up of the North Deans by golfer, volunteer, and other pedestrians, and when the sand dunes were quite a considerable walk from the town, the old gunners yearly expected, and often fell in with, the land, DOTTERELL, Eudromius Morinellus, which was quite a usual spring immigrant. Billy Samson, a gunner who frequented this locality until the early seventies, several times met with them in small flocks, the largest number he ever saw together being twelve. The colors of the bird, when squat and immovable, are so similar to its surroundings that when the eye is once off it, it is singularly difficult to locate again. The bird is very simple and easily stalked. Samson affirmed that one only needed to get within range and keep rounding them up, and most of a flock might be secured. He once shot three out of four in this manner, the fourth taking to wing whilst he was loading his old muzzle-gun. THE WIND AND MIGRANTS The direction pursued by birds on their migratorial trips is considerably affected by the winds prevalent at the time, as well as by the force of the same. There can be no doubt that with a continuity of strong westerly winds in October, the east side of the North Sea benefits by their numbers, just as a south-easterly wind puts the flocks this way. Birds appear to prefer a side wind rather than one behind them, and least of all, a head wind. Should opposing winds be weak, however, they do not object to them, as was seen in October 1903, when for days following the sixteenth incredible numbers of corvidee and other land birds came over. On the other hand, wading birds were conspicuously absent. Quite a rush of migratorial birds occurred on the fifth of September 1897. Several were killed by nightfall. This rush, I thought at the time, portended a shift of the wind, which had been continuously west-southwest for several days, and within twelve hours of my recording my impressions, and seeing the birds on the move, the wind veered round to the east. On a game-stall on the sixth, I noticed the following birds. Ten bar-tailed godwits, nine curlew sandpipers, one reave, twenty knots, one shell-duck, immature, one greenshank, one scalp, female, two kingfishers. The following entries may be of interest. November 23, 1897. Extraordinarily thick fog. November 24. Night noisy with cries of plovers. This, with certain other birds being uneasy, portending bad weather. The wind changed immediately after. November 28. Blew hard to-day, and next. The guile causing havoc all round the neighbourhood. Tide rose to an alarming height. The sea broke through the sandhills at Horsey. I may also quote a note as follows. September 20, 1899. Wind veered yesterday from southwest. To southeast. Rough, wet night. Today, brayden noisy with birds. Sore some turnstones and whimberl. Numbers of grey plovers, some greenshanks, and many small birds. Many scores of grey plovers were subsequently shot. During the spring migration, an easterly, and a northeasterly wind especially, favours bird observation here. In the old days, of which the few worn-out gunners still living, delight to talk, when godwits were as common as dunlands, dirty weather was always hailed by them. Bringing with it, as it did, many birds are wearied by flying shoulder-on on their northward journey. Old Goodens, a man of iron constitution, who, at an age exceeding the allotted span, still ventures up brayden, ill-sparing, told me he once killed fifteen godwits at a shot. He had seen thousands drop in on a thick drizzly morning with a northeast wind. They settled on a flat, on a certain tenth of May, near the channel, and reached one solid flock, five stakes in length. These brayden channel stakes rise out of the water several hundreds of feet apart. Two days after, he added, not one godwit was to be seen. Have the grey plover's movements and appearance here are connected with certain winds, will be seen in the following notes, copied from my entries. May the fifth, nineteen-hundred. Grey plovers, several on brayden, noisily piping. Wind, south-west. May the sixth, wind, suddenly gone round to the south-east. May the seventh, wind, very blustering all night with squalls. May the twenty-fifth, several grey plovers on brayden, after fortnight's absence of species. Wind changed to northeast, and then to southeast on the following day. I made similar observations in nineteen-o-one, as follows. November the twelfth, glass falling rapidly, guile came on at night. November the thirteenth, during a lull in the guile last night, the air overhead was alive with golden plovers and other migrating waders. Wind muddled and light attracted. Some snipe were distinctly heard among them. Some awkward mistakes. Birds, like ourselves, do not always avoid committing little errors of judgment. In January, eighteen ninety-six, a kestrel, noticing a movement in the herbage below it, stooped and seized what, to his surprise, turned out to be a weasel. He almost immediately dropped it, and then, hurriedly altering his mind, actually captured it again and rose in the air with it, to drop it as hurriedly once more, when the animal began squirming and shrieking. Luckily for the kestrel, its sharp talons had inflicted injury upon its unwanted prey, and also had held it near the head, or he might have fared badly. The poor little weasel dragged itself into a hole, where, in a bad way, it lay for a while exhausted, half in and half out. It eventually recovered, and was molested by the plucky hawk no more. In the same month I observed a large guile stooped to the surface of Braden, and seized a bit of floating food. A hooded crow, observing the seabird's success, straightway dashed at him, and so hustled him that, to recover himself, he was obliged to drop the food. He descended again and retrieved his prize. But Hoodie once more dashed at him, and again compelled him to relinquish the object of disputation. But the crow was not nimble enough of wing to seize it, and made no effort to repossess it. Hoodie made a mistake in imagining himself a skewer. In the spring of 1898 a hen, wanting badly to sit, contented herself by sitting most assiduously on two common stone ginger beer bottles. It is needless to say her labours were in vain, and one might almost imagine that anything so foolish could never have been attempted by any creature known to be unaddicted to the bottle. Owing to the dryness of the season, in the July of 1896, the snails and slugs in certain districts gathered into the strawberry beds. Thither the blackbirds followed them, to the indignation of the market gardeners, who at once not only accused them of stealing strawberries, but commenced a warfare on them. Many scores were slaughtered, and their carcasses hung up as a warning to others. What was done by the slugs upon the finest of the berries was laid to the blackbirds' charge. Notwithstanding this, many courts of strawberries perished for want of gathering. It was not only a pity, but a very great mistake, to slaughter so piteously the friends who were ready to save the strawberries by devouring their greatest enemies, the slimy mollusks. Hybrid Doves A Yarmouth pigeon fancier mated a male almond splash pigeon with a collared dove in 1897. After spoiling six pairs of eggs, a pair of hybrids were produced. They were dove-like in general appearance and manners, and exceedingly timid. One bird was pale, mouse-coloured, with the edging of the secondries, and the greater and lesser wing-covets of a light brown hue. The tail was barred at the extreme end with white. The other bird was whitish, with the edgings of the aforementioned parts fawn-coloured. The birds were healthy and strong. At another house during the same year, I saw a hybrid produced from a dark blue tumbler and a hen collared dove. It was plum-coloured all over, and resembled its maternal parent in style and appearance. On the neck were the loveliest metallic bronze tints imaginable, reminding me of those on the American passenger pigeon. Birds Returning Home Certain of our birds, waders to wit, although so noticeable in their autumnal immigration, do not make much display of their return in the spring on their way to the north of Europe. I have certainly observed the heron in one or two instances fly directly east, and also small bunches of stylings on one or two occasions. We have influxes of spring-waders, godwits, knots, gray plovers, and the like, although not so numerous as formerly, dropping in on braid and mud flats, but it is seldom they are actually seen to leave. They do so, and doubly, at night. I have disturbed turns, and seen them mount high in the air, and proceed in a northeast direction. The gathering together of certain species for the flight is not so rare. On the first of April, 1898, I saw many scores of hooded crows congregated on braid and mud flats, simply resting themselves and holding, to all intents and purposes, an avine congress. As far as the eye could reach, they were to be seen, and from the quaint manner in which one would address its nearest fellow, I was almost certain they had already paired. On the 20th of March, 1892, I saw a similar gathering on the sandhills between Caster and Scratby. On the second of April, 1898, I observed a troop of jackdaws flying direct east at a considerable elevation. Their note made identification easy. Some large bunches of starlings, flying in wedge form, due east and very high, passed over the town on the 29th of March, 1900. Five kentish crows hung about braid and as late as the 11th of May, 1900. One had a slightly injured wing, and was unable to fly to any great distance. His companions, who were evidently concerned about his welfare, at length finding it would, or could not join them, left it to its own devices. A town rookery. The successful attempts made by Rooks to establish a colony in the heart of Yarmouth have been a matter of no little interest to residents living in the marketplace and its neighborhood. Each spring, since that of 1896, has found the birds in more or less numbers resorting to the trees immediately to the left of the hospital school, in the old disused cemetery at the rear of the marketplace. Early in April of that year, a pair built a nest there. Odd birds at various times visited the couple settled there, and seemed to beg fun of them. Seven rooks were observed around the nest on the 10th. Young birds were nearly fledged on the 24th of May, when some brute climbed the tree and in sheer wantonness soared off the limb, dropping nest and young birds to the ground. In the March of 1897, a pair of rooks again put in an appearance, remained for a day or two, and then left the place entirely for that year. In 1901, others again looked in for a day or two, and in 1902, two nests were built, but during a very severe guile, both nests were completely destroyed. One might think that the birds weighed the matter over in their minds, and decided in the end that, as an act of providence had upset their hopes and not human interference, they might as well try again in 1903, which they did, when no less than seven nests, six of them inhabited, decorated the trees. The good wishes of the townsfolk went out to them, being especially voiced during the guiles of March and April, which they survived. Something like a score of youngsters were reared, and in time crossed the town to the braid and marshes with their parents, who had frequently passed and repast with Provender from the neighbourhood of that favourite estuary. The oldest inhabitant cannot remember ever before seeing a colony of rooks in the heart of the town, although rookeries are common enough in various parts of Galston. The shag. The shag, phallochrocorax graculus, makes an exceedingly interesting pet. I purchased one of a smacksman in March 1898. He was giving it a swim in the river, keeping it captive by means of a long cord tied to its leg, and by means of which he dragged it ignominiously on board the smack again. I kept it for some weeks. It soon answered to my call, and would catch easily the fish thrown to it. When hungry, it uttered a harsh, discordant, trumpeting note, unlike another I kept later, which made no sound at all. It ate, or rather swallowed, about a pound and a half of fish per day, including bones, mostly cut up fish heads and skate. The bones it vomited after digesting the muscular parts around them. Another came into my possession in September 1903. Like its predecessors, it never drank or even dipped its bill into water while in my care. It became exceedingly tame and would come into the house boldly, as if it preferred the warmth of the fireside to its own outside lodgings. Locally, this species seems to turn up more frequently now than in years gone by. Some strange fatalities. Some bricklayers working on a roof in the heart of the town in April 1899 called to me from the scaffolding, asking me to inspect a large niche in a half demolished chimney where lay huddled together no less than fifteen bird skeletons, which I immediately identified as those of jackdaws. In all probability, the chimney had been the birthplace of generations of those birds, and the perfectly clean, bare skeletons discovered were doubtless those of young birds that had either tumbled out of the nest or had died and been thrown out by the parent birds. Not a particle of flesh, sinew, or feather remained. This being due, may happen, to the attentions of mice, blowflies, and moths. I had known the house since childhood, but could not remember jackdaws having ever inhabited its chimneys. That blowflies find out carcasses in a most mysterious fashion, is evidenced by my finding, in two instances, the remains of swifts that had probably lost their lives in striking the parish church steeple, and fallen on the leads at its base, just above the clock. The bones beneath the feathers were in both cases bare, and in one, indeed, a few larval cases remained. The blowflies must have caught the scent of the dead birds when atmospheric depression brought it earthwards, although I am not certain that these dipterous insects do not occasionally fly at as great an elevation. That scent will draw insects to great distances, is evidenced by the finding of the carcass of a porpoise, an old brabeach, four miles from any habitation, yet simply alive with the larvae of the green blowfly. Curious Maneuvers One of the oddest performances I ever saw on Brayden took place on the early morning of the 17th of August, 1899. Hearing a number of black-headed gulls on the flat opposite my houseboat, I cautiously looked out to see the scarcely bare flat covered with these birds, all screaming in turn as if the bright morning were a real delight to them. And what was odd enough, they literally danced all over the place, each bird lifting its feet and pattering on the mud without moving away, as if dancing a hornpipe. Evidently, from the frequent pauses made by each bird to pick up something, the unusual disturbance of the mud caused sundry crustaceans and worms to come in terror to the surface, the very result intended by the birds. I had seen the same maneuver executed several times since. A few evenings prior to this, I was sitting in the dusk at the stern of my houseboat, when I noticed a gull behaving in a very strange way. And after some careful glimpses at him through my telescope, I found he had fastened his gullet, a flounder much too large to be comfortably swallowed. The poor thing described a number of circles, and gradually came my way. I had prepared to slip out onto the mud, should he come near enough, in order to help him in some way or other. But for all his caperings, he became distrustful of my presence, and vanished, still curvating into the gathering gloom. In all probability, it was the last flounder he ever tackled. In August 1899, a large grey gull captured a flounder he was utterly incapable of swallowing. A companion bullied him, chasing him up and down and around in the air for nearly a mile. The rightful possessor was persistently sticking to his find. How they settled the matter, I do not know, for they passed beyond my sight. Mostly snipe notes. It has often been the case, in my experience, that if we get snow and frost before Christmas, our local gunners have, what they term, a bit of tolerable sport. But, should light conditions obtain only after the advent of the new year, their chances are poor enough. The following notes copied from my diary are interesting as showing how a few frosty days affect the snipe. I made a few lists of victims that appeared from day to day on a local game stall. December the 11th, 1899. A three-inch fall of snow last night. Frost coming with it drove southwards to this neighbourhood great numbers of snipe. Common and jack snipe abundant everywhere. Durrant had the following birds to-day. Snipe 47. Lapwings, 14. Dunlins, 23. Wild Duck, 4. Jack Snipe, 17. Golden plovers, 10. Widgen, 3. Woodcock, 1. December the 13th. Yesterday a similar number of snipe on the stall. Today, Woodcocks, 8. Snipe, 120. Jack Snipe, 20. Spotted Rail, 2. Coots, 40. Dunlins, 40. Duck and Mallard, 14. Widgen, 9. December the 14th. Millions of radiated trough shells, mattress, stultorum, scarred up by the tide and thrown ashore. The presence of these tempted many wildfowl here. Marshers covered with snow. Gunners all on the alert for snipe. Two days list. Snipe, 43. Lapwings, 6. Dunlins, 60. Duck, 12. December the 15th. Heron, 1. Lapwings, 12. Widgen, 4. Shovelers, 3. Curlew, 1. Duck, 30. Teal, 1. Golden plovers, 4. Dunlins, 179. Pochards, 7. Moorhens, 9. Woodcock, 1. The snipe was sent daily to London. The curlew above referred to weighed two and a quarter pounds. December the 16th. Snipe, 310. Duck and Mallard, 32. Dabchicks, 6. Lapwings, 26. Dunlins, 336. Half-fowl, 90. Water-Riles, 12. Goussander, 1. The half-fowl were tufted ducks, golden eyes, etc. The common snipe nested very sparingly in the lowlands around Yarmouth. I knew a pair to nest on a low swampy bit of fen a few school yards beyond Belton Station. By the broads it is of less infrequent occurrence. The snipe puts in an appearance on our marshes in some numbers on the approach of frost. In the early 80s a severe frost shut up all the ditches and solidified the fenny places farther north. The brackish deeks of our own immediate neighbourhood in one night became swarmed and for a day or two after every gunner was incessantly blazing away as the birds were flushed continually by the tramp of feet and snuffing of dogs. Hundreds were killed. The frost continued and after the third day the numbers began perceptibly to lessen and in less than a week not a bird was to be found. But directly there was a break. A rush back took place although very few birds were then secured. It is a very rare circumstance to meet with this species on Braden. I observed one on a hot day in 1901 feeding along with a parcel of dunlands. Its favourite resorts had in all probability been dried up by a long continued drought. In an old edition of Gilbert White's cell-borne that had belonged to an old bra sportsman I saw written on the margin the following note snipe at worm. When at old bra I shot a great many snipes. One day I shot a jack and upon my dog bringing it to me I found a small red worm protruding from the mouth. I ever afterwards drew my finger and thumb tightly up the outside of the throat and several times I have by this means drawn the same description of worm from them and I have no doubt the woodcock eats the same. During one of the rushes of snipe in the old days a young fellow called in at a since deceased game dealers after the shop had been closed carrying in his pockets the proceeds of the shooting. The dealer sat reading his newspaper behind the counter. What do you want? He curtly asked the young fellow. I've brought some snipe said he emptying his pocket. I believe you buy them. The dealer coolly took up several of the birds and then critically eyeing the sportsman asked where he obtained them up the river walls on such and such a marsh he replied oh so you've been not only shooting game but obtain them on squire so and so's land hey just wait till I fetch a policeman it is needless to say the young sportsman took alarm and precipitately bolted leaving his game behind him he has not yet according to report returned to settle the deal or make inquiries respecting the snipe. A most unusual movement of snipe took place in the middle of November 1903 from two independent sources I was informed that from 400 to 500 of these birds are lighted on a hover a floating portion of ronde they were described as literally alighting upon each other a wary sailing by at the time put them up when they crossed over it some passing between the mast and the bobstay an old Braden who excelled at punt gunning in the 50s and 60s assured me that old Thomas the late Johnny Thomas's father was surprised one evening by a large flock of unknown or unrecognized birds alighting on a ronde on Braden not far from him owing to snow and inability to locate them Thomas drew up to the walls and in spite of the severity of the night slept there waking before daylight he found his way at daybreak to the spot and managed to get a shot at what he now saw to be snipe there were hundreds and at one pull he killed several scores coverin as my informant said the punt floor with them half fillin it end of section eight section nine of notes of an east coast naturalist by Arthur Henry Patterson this LibriVox recording is in the public domain bird notes part nine the curlew in august large female curlews occasionally with long bills frequent Braden sometimes the flocks are of a considerable size I am of the opinion that a few non-breeding birds remain in the vicinity or summer be taking themselves to the marshes and even farther afield for short periods returning at intervals to their favorite ooze neared worms melusca shrimps small crabs and tiny flounders are its usual prey a tame curlew became exceedingly partial to small dead mice soaked and knocked about until considered fit for swallowing a curlew was set upon by a small hawk the waiter squatted upon the mud presenting its bill to its tormentor a process that had the effect of either wearing out the latter's patience or of intimidating it it's left the curlew at length to its own devices and went in search of something more easily conquered curlews went on feed snatch at every little passing flounder small ones they bolt in an instant but any too large for swallowing are knocked shaken and twisted about and prodigious efforts are made to bolt them till at length finding all their efforts vain they appear regretfully to throw them down what most amuses me is the way a disappointed bird immediately after trots along as fast as his legs can carry him to seek for some more manageable item as if there were lost time to be made up a watcher's notebook for several years past a watcher has been stationed on braden during the close season for wild birds more than the centre of that estuary is his houseboat from which it is his duty to keep a sharp eye upon all persons likely to break the law by shooting or attempting to shoot the various waders using braden mud flats the first man employed was a big old fellow known as ducker chambers whether true or not it is rumoured of him that when a rare bird was known to be using braden it was not a difficult task for an interested party to decoy him into some favourite resort whilst another would slip into a punt and either secure or attempt to shoot the coveted prize it may or it may not be that more than one spoon bill vanished not by proceeding on its migration but in a way not intended by the act old chambers kept a rough sort of diary and from day to day or when the humor seized him it was his custom to jot down in rough numbers the birds that came into his view from time to time it goes without saying that in so large an area he did not see all that came i append a few entries which may be interesting for purposes of comparison 1888 april 13th white-winged turn made the 20th three spoon bills june the third six spoon bills june the 8th two spoon bills june the 12th one spoon bill june the 21st three spoon bills july the 18th one spoon bill various small waders 1889 march the 10th 200 widgen march the 11th four shelled ducks march the 13th 17 pin-tiled ducks march the 15th 400 widgen 18 mellard and some teal march the 16th 2000 widgen march the 22nd 200 widgen 12 mellard etc march the 24th 200 widgen few golden eyes and shovelers march the 28th 100 widgen march the 31st four shelled ducks april 12 three goosanders may the 12th godwits whimbrill etc may the 19th one spoon bill june the 11th one spoon bill june the 18th two goosanders june the 25th four shelled ducks july the 4th one spoon bill 1890 march the 2nd over 200 widgen march the 5th 65 shovelers march the 6th 11 geese march the 9th 300 widgen two golden eyes ring plovers and dunlins march the 14th 60 godwits whimbrill and plovers may the 24th several green shanks and red shanks may the 25th six cormorants four black turns many small birds june the 4th shelled ducks june the 13th three burnicle geese june the 24th numerous red shanks 1891 march the 2nd 40 widgen 30 geese march the 7th 20 widgen three shelled ducks march the 8th 12 swans march the 15th 70 geese march the 17th six shelled ducks march the 19th two swans march the 22nd two goosanders many small birds march the 24th four goosanders April the 6th 500 widgen pintails and teal April the 12th four golden eyes April the 15th two swans may the 12th 200 godwits numerous whimbrill May the 29th four swans june the 14th two spoonbills june the 15th three avocets july the 14th nine shelled ducks july the 17th six young mallard july the 18th five shelled ducks March the 6th 30 widgen five geese May the 2nd eagle white-tailed May the 8th two goosanders May the 10th four black turns May the 12th five shelled ducks whimbrill May the 16th 200 godwits numerous turnstones and whimbrill May the 19th 17 cormorants two shelled ducks The entries in succeeding years are fragmentary but much on a par with the preceding chambers seem to tire of the literary part of his duties and very often omitted weeks of arrivals altogether. Five years ago a younger man succeeded him on his retirement into the fisherman's arms houses. Jari the new man was not to be played with and by exercising much greater vigilance kept would-be shooters entirely in the background. It is rare indeed save from a passing yacht containing a smuggled rifle and a holidaying fool to hear a shot from the first of March to the end of the close season. A few entries from Jari's book would be as interesting as those of his predecessor but the examples given are sufficient to convey a fairly good idea of the birds that visit us on their northward journey. I must however state that since stricter preservation has obtained not nearly so many birds are to be seen on Braden but other causes then preservation must be blamed for this falling off although the fact gives rise to no small cynicism and sarcasm amongst those who feel aggrieved at not being allowed to shoot the few that even today put in an appearance. Young Cuckoos In this locality the meadow pipet in my experience is the most favoured foster parent of the young cuckoo. In almost every instance where I have met with a fledgling it has been in the lowly built nest of this species. The young cuckoo grows very rapidly and seems to be not only an exceedingly hungry quarrelsome creature but very easy to rear. On one occasion I obtained one from under a gravestone out of a pipet's nest and brought it up to full feather simply on a diet of bullock's lights. In a cabbage garden the caterpillar of the garden white butterfly was committing woeful havoc and the owner disbared of cutting any fit for cooking. In the midst of his grumbling a young cuckoo of the year appeared and commenced to wage war upon the insect pests by devouring them. Day after day the cuckoo was welcomed and in a very short time had cleared the patch and saved the situation. On the margin of an old book I found penciled the following. I have found in my lifetime five young cuckoos in their nests four being those of the pied wagtail and the other a hedge sparrows. In one of the nests which was in a sawpet were four young wagtails and the cuckoo. One day on going to look at them I found two of the wagtails upon the ground directly under the nest. Thinking they might be put out by the cuckoo I watched them rather narrowly and the next day I saw the cuckoo wriggle himself until he got one of the remaining wagtails on his back when he raised himself and shot the wagtail out of the nest. On the following day I found the other wagtail on the ground. No doubt got rid of by the cuckoo in the same way to make room for himself. The same hand had also penciled as follows. I do not see that Mr. Hoy's finding of two eggs in one nest proves that the cuckoo lays more than one egg as in all probability the eggs were deposited by different birds but still I do not see that the cuckoo should be restricted to the laying of one egg only. Some sneaking sort of belief still obtains among certain ignorant folk with regard to the ill luck attending the appearance of cuckoos. A young cuckoo flew over the house of an old lady in the town while I stood speaking to her at the door. When I pointed out the retreating bird to her she begged of me to say it was not a cuckoo. Anything but that, for it was the unluckiest thing in the world, should one fly over one's roof. Some still affect to believe that to see three cuckoos in succession portends a death in the observer's family circle. The storm petrol. The storm petrol does not visit us so frequently now as in the days when herrings were landed on the beach, see fishermen sportsmen. Now and again a severe guile or a succession of boisterous storms from the northward bring some into the neighbourhood when the keen observer may detect the small dark birds tripping along just beyond the breakers and now and again meet with one blown in land weary and exhausted. In the October of 1901 I observed a group of fishermen on the fish wharf surrounding one of their fellows who had in his hands a small paper pastry bag from which a poor little petrol was looking out in some surprise. I purchased it and took it home where it soon learned to peck at soft herring-milts hung within its reach. It would run up and down its new domicile with wings vertically raised uttering a pee-pee cry very like that of a newly hatched turkey chick. It's lived but a few days having never recovered the rough treatment it received from the North Sea guile and the equally rough attentions of its not unkindly disposed captor. Mr. Booth, in his catalogue of birds, says, I have often noticed these poor little birds terribly distressed by the buffettings they receive during a protracted guile, at times hovering and settling among the breakers and occasionally being carried before some blinding squall almost helpless in land. After a storm of several days duration in November 1872 I observed scores of these birds resting on the water off the coast of Norfolk, apparently worn out with the heads buried in their feathers. On visiting one of the light ships I learned that several of the stormy as well as a single specimen of the fork-tailed petrel had come on board while the guile was at its height. It was about this time that a local sportsman, tramping the beach in quest of fowl, saw a number of petrels at the harbour mouth. He had only big shot with him but succeeded in killing nine birds. He took snapshots at them as they neared the crest of a wave and before they fell back into the trough of the sea. Having disposed of four brace at four shillings a couple, he took the last bird to a game-dealer. I suppose you've hawked round, said the dealer, as many as you could sell and brought this one to me. What matters that to you? asked the gunner. I only ask if you all buy it. I want two shillings for it. The dealer gave him three-fourths of that amount. When, to his just annoyance, the man sourcely told him he had sold eight already to persons from whom the dealer had actually received orders to obtain specimens for them. Locality in birds I have already shown in the case of the grey wagtail how that species persists in returning, even when repeatedly disturbed to certain chosen localities. I have noticed this propensity for locality by preference in several birds. The red shanks bred on the Waverney and Bure marshes in August invariably frequent a flat near the Lockgate Farm, two miles from the Vauxhall station on the north walls of Braydon. This is quite in front of the rond cutting in which my houseboat has been moored for several years. As soon as the water falls, the birds come back to the flat, determinedly feeding there until the returning flood once more washes them off it. A large rond, a few hundred yards from my location, is used at high water by curlews who retire to its sheltering grasses to preen their plumage and sleep until the falling tide allows them again a footing on the mudflats. The saddle-back gulls prefer the five-state drain, lumps for a sleeping resort. There stands a tall tree or two on the west side of St Nicholas Church. There, at the closing of the day, at certain periods of the year, gather together for a noisy concert, hundreds of sparrows, before scattering to their several sleeping places. The hoopoe has this peculiar habit of returning to a favourite spot even after being disturbed. An old gunner named Sampson, who, when a young man was keenly alert to the ways and manners of birds, noticed this habit, or weakness, and on putting up a hoopoe from a fursy corner, hid near the spot and awaited its return with fatal result to the poor bird. It is usually exceedingly wary and shy, and but for his hiding no doubt that example would have fought shy of him. Sampson killed four in his day, and made about four shillings a piece of them. The highest figure I have known given was three guineas for two stuffed specimens in the horsey sail. In the first half of the 19th century, the allotment marshes were a favourite resort of many wildfowl. Various ducks came over from sea at nightfall to feed on the large pools and lagoons that formed in rainy spells, when the windmills were unable to cope with the downfall. The place was full of moluscus life. Numerous gunners frequented that locality. One old man, whom I knew, at that time supported his family with his gun. To this day, although the fact does not seem generally known, small parcels of fowl in the autumn and early winter drop into feed in the ditches at night and depart by daylight. I have stood in certain well-defined leads and seen and heard the birds pass over in the dim light of eventide or early morning, acting on the defensive. Birds are seldom aggressive. They do not often attack other species when in a state of liberty, and seldom seriously quarrel amongst themselves. A starling will sometimes dispute possession of a place on a dung hill when worms or the larvae of flies are abundant. But anything like a serious scuffle is out of the question, even when pretending to box, as they will do, sometimes even springing up from the ground in noisy dispute. When a gull has seized upon a tit-bet found floating upon the water, it sometimes happens that a parcel of his fellows will come noisily protesting against his keeping it, and occasionally one or more will give chase. In this case his idea seems to be to get away with it and a long circling zigzag fly-round ensues, in which the pursuers, in most cases, give in first. But when a bird is wounded, and his human enemy seeks to lay hold of him, something like a fight for life and liberty takes place. I have seen a wounded heron fight most savagely, darting lightning-like thrusts with his dangerous bill at man and dog. Wounded or handled gulls will seize fingers with such petulancy and promptness, that one must admit that these creatures know they have not only the power of inflicting pain, but where to inflict it, distinguishing easily enough it would seem, where to, and where not to, grip and nip. The larger gulls can make a nasty cut on one's hand. The shag draws blood easily by seizing one's digits and nipping with the sharp curved point of its upper mandible. Crows dig at you, as do divers and grebes. I had an unpleasant experience on one occasion, when trying to capture a broken-winged short-eared owl. Its needle-like claws drilled several bleeding punches. An old gunner named Samson had shot a short-eared owl, winging it. He essayed to pick it up. But the poor, defiant thing, ruffling and staring, flung itself upon its back, seizing the fingers of one hand in its claws. When the gunner tried to free himself with the other hand, the owl seized the fingers of that also, holding him absolutely a prisoner. Do what he would. He could not get clear of it, and was obliged at length to kneel upon his victim, and, as he said, let out its wind. It gradually relaxed its hold as the life went out of it, and finally Samson got free. He told me his fingers bled freely, and were very sore, and furthermore, that he was always very careful after that of handling woodcock owls. In 1901 a young pair of swifts discovered a hole under the tiles of a comparatively new house near my own. I believe they successfully reared young ones. Returning in the spring of 1902, the couple made for their old habitation, but found a pair of saucy, defiant sparrows in possession. Attempting an ignorance to enter, the male bird found one of the new lodgers at home, and he immediately came out with the sparrow farsend onto his neck. Together they fell scuffling and squealing to the ground. A friendly next door neighbour, seeing the state of things, put the sparrow to flight, whilst the astonished swift, after one or two awkward attempts, got again upon the wing. The rescuer settled matters in favour of the swifts by destroying the sparrows with a catapult. The swifts remained for that season, but for some unknown reason, death, perhaps, did not return to the house in the following spring. The avow set The most exquisitely beautiful of all the wading birds upon the yarmouth list is, to my mind, the avow set. It has seldom been my privilege to see it on braid and mud flats. The largest number I ever saw together was on the 4th of May, 1887, when four in a flock passed me by within a few yards. So near, in fact, that with regret I have to state, I brought one down to my gun. Such a beautiful creation certainly ought to have been saved from my brutal hand. But at that time I had an itching for both gun and specimens. The day before, six had been seen, but two were killed, and eventually nearly every one was accounted for. Another gunner, later on the 4th, fired at the party, his gun being loaded with swan-shot. He pricked one and saw it falter in its flight. Following the direction taken by the birds, he at length came up with the wounded one, swimming. Again he shot at it, when it determinedly dived. Watching it in the deep water of the channel below him, he saw the bird rising to the surface to breathe. When, plunging in his hand, he seized it ere it had reached the surface. The avow set usually comes singly, and it is only once in two or three years that it is noticed. It then affects the society of the smaller gulls, blackheads in particular, from which it is not easily distinguished, for the reason, perhaps, that it is so rarely with us that its presence is not suspected, and few give more than a passing glance at a flock of gulls dozing on a flat or floating in a drain. The avow set bred constantly and in some numbers at Horsey early in the nineteenth century. Lubbock, in his book, Observations on the Fauna of Norfolk, speaks of an old and respectable fenman assuring him that forty years ago, Lubbock wrote in 1845, it bred regularly near the seven mile house on the River Bure. The Ways of Waders Just as every waiter has its distinctive note, so has it its own peculiar methods of flight, run, and feeding. The pert-ringed plover, when feeding, never forgets to have one or more chums watching. Its seldom covers more than two feet of mud, usually running three or four steps, and then stopping, unless a pedestrian is hard upon its track, when it endeavours to outdistance him before attempting again to pick up its crustacean prey. The dunlin is less deliberate, and erratically runs a greater or lesser distance before looking for a likely wormhole. The curlew sandpiper is more energetic than either of them, for it probes the mud at almost every step, thrusting its beak in pretty well up to the hilt each time, sometimes withdrawing it with its face quite muddy. The turnstone appears always in a hurry, as if eager to get over a certain area in a given time. In this locality, the sandaling, like the oyster catcher and the purple sandpiper, much prefers the beach to braid and mudflats. But only in the very bitterest weather in winter do we expect to see the sandaling on the sands. In the spring migration, a few usually visit braid and as well as the shore. The knot is exceedingly sociable, and in most instances, except when in fair size flocks, attaches itself to a parcel of small waders. The common sandpiper prefers the river margins to braid and, when found on that estuary, invariably keeps to the immediate neighbourhood of the flint walls, seldom being seen feeding out in the open. Young red shanks very industriously pursue opossum shrimps at the river margin. When on braid and mudflats, they pipe considerably when feeding, often hunting for their prey, with the water level with their bellies. The green shank, like roughs of the year, appears partial to the small puddles of still water to be found in ronds. The godwit is not noisy when feeding. The green shank, the wimbral, and dunlin are quite the reverse. The spoonbill never utters a sound, beyond the faint clap of its mandibles when suddenly brought together. Mr. J. H. Gurney, however, assures me the spoonbill is not voiceless, for on one occasion he heard a couple probably under the influence of the season and a fine day, utter a feeble trumpet-like note, while dancing in the old way peculiar to birds of the stalk family. Spoonbills work the soft mud in a very deliberate and methodical manner, spooning it from side to side. Usually a flock work together, where one leads, the others follow, like so many sheep. When flying, they proceed in single file, with necks and legs extended, looking singularly white against the blue sky or grey horizon. When shifting ground, they will sometimes swim across an intervening creek. They travel a long way when feeding, and one might almost imagine they are ever considering a distant puddle to be more desirable than the one they are at the moment working. Some odd shots. This is not to me a pleasing subject, the wanton killing of birds that the heading suggests. Too many birds are shot and aimed at simply to gratify a love of slaughter and the pride of marksmanship. However, as I have used the gun, and, I fear, being guilty of similar practices in my earlier days, there have been kills that struck me as being of more than ordinary interest from a sportsman's point of view. One of my earliest shots was at a swift, which received but one pellet at a considerable height above my head. The poor thing was killed instantly, but came down with its wings comparatively stiff and extended, reaching the earth in a rotary manner, very much after the fashion of a sycamore pen or seed that children throw up for the purpose. But it took an extraordinary time to come down. Another I saw shot flew away at least 500 yards from the gunner and describing a complete circle boomerang-like actually wheeled round and fell dead at our feet. One july morning when out shooting by the Bureau I decoyed a red shank within shooting distance. Following the bird with my gun before pulling the trigger, it came into direct line with a brilliant sun which entirely closed my eyes. I had, however, so accurately judged the rate of flight and its direction that before I could properly see again I fired, and to my surprise heard a plump upon the ronde, immediately followed by another, and was still more astonished to see a second bird lying dead. It had, unknown to me, crossed the other in its flight at the identical moment of firing. An old friend used to be very partial to moonlight strolls along Braden walls in the days when there were neither gun licences nor close seasons. One evening he saw the shadow of a green shank and fired at where he thought the bird might be. To his surprise he heard a double fall, flop flop as he expressed it, on the mud, and found that his shot had completely halved the bird. The zest with which many sportsmen recount the adventures and circumstances attending the slaughter of rare birds, and the remarkable results of their shots, certainly, to me, savers somewhat of the callous, and does not speak much for the value they place upon the lives of the lower animals, which, I am bound to admit, after having been somewhat of a sportsman myself, have quite as much right to live and be happy as I have. I must confess to having feelings of repugnance when I hear men talk of the ways. I even laugh at the antics and efforts of stricken and maimed birds to regain their feet and freedom. To hear of lanes being cut through curlews, the moment before merrily piping and feeding on the mudflat, is not to me edifying. Nor are the records of big shots ever anything but distasteful. An old gunner with seeming pride told me that his biggest shot secured him 285 dunlens and 5 widgen. He did not count the cripples that fluttered away. These birds were crowded together on a huge slab of floating eyes, and it cost him some labour to force his gun-punt through the pack in order to make this shot. Some years ago, an old gunner, lying with his boat in a wake in the ice, while waiting for Wildfowl, settled himself to eat his dinner. A brilliantly plumage kingfisher, the best he had ever set eyes upon, and which is now said to be a Norwich Museum, alighted on the extreme end of his punt gun. He longed to secure the bird, but having no handgun he was puzzled to know how to effect a capture. It suddenly occurred to him that the vibration, as he termed it, of a discharge might kill the bird, so he stealthily, inch by inch, reached towards the trigger, which he managed at length to pull. The gun went off with a roar, and dead as a stone, dropped the poor little kingfisher into the water beneath. End of Section 9