126 TWO DIANAS IN ALASKA 



Of all the beautifully coated ducks the most ex- 

 quisite is the golden-eye. His beauty is but skin deep, 

 for he is a most unpleasant bird at table. As these 

 birds fly the beating of their wings is a musical rustle, 

 a whistling patter of sound almost impossible to de- 

 scribe, but something akin to the shivering rattle with 

 which a peacock animates his feathers as he sets his tail 

 into a fan. Most alert of birds, golden-eyes, never 

 still, for ever diving, flying hither and thither, rest- 

 less as a petrel. I think they have solved the mystery 

 of perpetual motion. Here, in Alaska, they fre- 

 quented the coast and rivers. 



The natives told us that these birds nest in holes of 

 trees. In Lapland, I know, the golden-eye chooses a 

 hole in a tree to build in, but on the Bering Sea coast 

 I do not know how the habit can be fostered. A very 

 far journey would have to be taken before a tree cal- 

 culated to support even the most emaciated golden-eye 

 could be discovered. The parent birds, Steve told us, 

 carry the little ducks to the water when the right 

 moment comes. A tremendous business. Like an 

 excursion to Margate of Punch variety. For the 

 golden-eyes have enormous families, eight or ten as a 

 rule. 



The phalaropes were the most taking little birds, so 

 solemn in face and mien, so sombre in plumage. 

 Picture a sandpiper riding on the breast of the waves, 

 buoyant as a cork, lightsome as a bit of thistledown, 

 and you have the phalarope. Like a sandpiper he is 

 ashore, for this bird of many parts is as agile on land 

 as on sea, flitting gaily here and there, and running 



