58 LIFE HISTORIES OF NORTH AMERICAN DIVING BIRDS 



pal flight is along the coast, where they are, at times, very common, 

 flying with the scoters and generally crossing headlands or long 

 capes. They usually fly high in the air, singly, or in small groups 

 widely scattered, but I have often seen a large number in sight at one 

 time. While anchored off the coast coot shooting on foggy mornings 

 in October, I have listened with interest to the laughing calls of mi- 

 grating loons, which were probably keeping in touch with each other 

 and with the coast line by this method of signaling in the fog. Some- 

 times they stop to rest and congregate in large numbers in the water, 

 several miles off shore, in what we call "conventions," where we 

 could hear, on a still morning, the constant murmur of their voices 

 in soft conversational tones. It is a constant temptation to all 

 gunners to shoot at passing loons, for they are swift, strong fliers 

 and are very hard to stop ; it is particularly exciting on a foggy morn- 

 ing when so many are heard and only an occasional fleeting glimpse is 

 seen. There is no good excuse, however, for shooting them, as they 

 are practically never used for food. They are exceedingly hard to 

 kill, and it is well-nigh useless to chase a wounded loon. On the 

 coast of Labrador loons are shot for food, and I can testify from 

 experience that they are not bad eating, though I should not con- 

 sider them to be in the game-bird class. 



Winter. Loons spend the winter on inland lakes and streams to 

 some extent throughout their winter range, which extends as far 

 north as they can find plenty of open water. As they require a large 

 open space in which to rise from the water, they are sometimes caught 

 by the freezing of ponds, where they are either shot or starve to 

 death. By far the greater number of them spend the winter on the 

 seacoast, where they are usually seen singly or in small parties, but 

 occasionally in large gatherings, which can hardly be called flocks, 

 numbering from 40 to 100 birds, sometimes far out at sea. They 

 are common on the coast of New England, swimming just outside 

 the breakers off our beaches, where they are always conspicuous, 

 standing up at full height to flap their wings or rolling over on their 

 sides to preen their plumage, their white breasts glistening in the 

 sunlight, as they swim around in a circle with one foot up in the air. 

 In stormy or foggy weather they are often noisy. I believe that they 

 usually sleep on the water, but when it is safe to do so they often 

 come ashore to sleep. I have several times surprised one well up on 

 a sandy beach, where it had been spending the night or had gone 

 ashore to dry and sand its plumage. Its attempts to regain the water 

 were more precipitous than graceful, as it scrambled or stumbled 

 down the beach, falling on its breast at every few yards, darting its 

 head and neck about, humping its back and straining every muscle 

 to make speed, at which it was surprisingly successful. 



