76 THE BIRD WATCHER 
are broad, black bands _and streaks upon it, but what 
these consist of, or ther they are anything more 
than seaweed I cannot quite make out; and here, 
where I lie, being above the sea’s influence, there 
is nothing similar to instruct me. Rocks now I find 
—as I have often before—are inferior to foliage for 
concealing oneself, that is, if one wishes to see as 
well as to be unseen. One’s head, projecting over 
their hard, sharp, uncompromising lines, catches the 
eye of a wary bird, and recesses made by their angles 
are not often to be found where one wants them. 
Twice has the mother duck been slightly suspicious, 
and now, to my chagrin—though it really should not 
be, for what can be more entertaining ?—she goes to 
the length of calling her ducklings off the rock. 
This she does by uttering a deep “‘ quorl ”—a curious 
sound, not a quack, but something like one—on 
which they come scurrying down to join her, putting 
off to sea with the greatest precipitation, like two little 
boats that have only just themselves to launch—no 
waiting for people to get into them. I have heard 
this note before, and always it has been uttered as a 
danger-signal to the chicks. There is another one 
that is used on ordinary occasions, and this much 
more resembles a true “ quack.” 
In spite of these various alarms, however, the 
young eiders are soon on the rock again, and after a 
while the mother walks up it, too, and begins picking 
and pulling with her bill over these same black 
surfaces. I still cannot quite make out, though now 
