Stray individuals wander far down the American coast in winter, 
even to northern California, where several, mostly immature birds, 
have been captured. They also go as far as the Hawaiian Islands, for 
Henry VV. Henshaw has recorded the capture of four on Hawaii, 
where they arrived, with other stray visitors, after a severe October 
gale, in 1902. On the coast of eastern Asia, we have records of them 
as far south as Bering Island, the mouth of the Anadyr River, and 
the coast of Kamchatka. On this coast, however, we do not know 
of their presence in any large numbers. 
While I was preparing to go to Alaska, more years ago than I 
like to contemplate, the emperor goose, Steller’s and Fischer’s eiders, 
and the Aleutian tern, were names to conjure with; and the anticipa¬ 
tion of studying these birds in their remote northern homes filled me 
with joy. In the North, my headquarters were at St. Michael, on 
the coast of Bering Sea, about sixty miles north of the Yukon Delta. 
Here emperor geese rarely occurred except in stray parties, visitors to 
the marshy coast-plain in fall. I made a sledge-journey one winter 
through the Yukon Delta and across the tundras southward to the 
Kuskokwim, and found the Eskimos in that district wearing parkas, 
or outer garments, made of the skins of emperor geese sewed toge¬ 
ther; and I heard that great numbers of these birds nested there each 
spring. From what I learned, it appeared evident that they rarely 
nested above the upper limit of the tide in the sluggish streams of 
this low plain. All available observations of the habits of this bird 
show it to be a strictly salt-water, coastal species, both in summer 
and winter. Its food is sought between tide-lines either on oozy flats, 
as at the Yukon mouth, or along the rocky beaches of the wild Aleu¬ 
tian shores. 
One spring, during my residence at St. Michael, it became possi¬ 
ble to fulfil my long-cherished desire to visit the breeding-grounds of 
these geese, and of many other water-fowl in the Yukon Delta. To 
reach there in time to welcome the coming feathered host, I left St. 
Michael early in May with an Eskimo and a dog-sledge. The tundra 
was still clothed in winter white, except here and there a bare spot 
on the sunny side of a knoll, and the sea was covered with unbroken 
ice to the far horizon. The hoarse, crowing notes of the willow ptar¬ 
migan were beginning to be heard on the tundra, and occasional 
scouts from the coming army of white-fronted and cackling geese 
passed high overhead, spying out the land; yet the day I set out the 
temperature was well below zero. 
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