3 oo THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



feathers with remorseless bill, forces her to fly off 

 to the Serpentine. Then he sails up the alley to 

 his own duck, and announces that they are alone 

 once more. A very few minutes later, two specks 

 in the blue air, far up towards Kensington Gardens, 

 enlarge rapidly to flying ducks that, wheeling in a 

 fine spiral, drop with a splash into the coveted pool. 

 Again the drake in possession propels himself furiously 

 after them, and again and again, as successive pairs 

 arrive. Sometimes he ungallantly attacks the lady, 

 whereupon the drake rises and follows her in her flight, 

 sometimes with equal efficacy and more glory he falls 

 foul of his rival mallard. The fight with endless 

 variants can be seen almost any fine day, even now, 

 with cold winter close ahead of us, and many weeks 

 before a town duck begins seriously to make her nest 

 and raise hostages to the rats. 



Poor as is the ordinary bird life of London, this 

 group of water-birds is susceptible of delightful study, 

 for many of them live a semi-feral life in our parks. 

 They lighten the gloom of mid-winter by putting 

 on full early their nuptial finery, which is more striking 

 in the ducks than in nearly every other family of birds. 

 Before the peacock on the bank has more than half 

 regained his train, the tufted pochard, affectionately 

 called the diving-duck by his many friends among the 

 people, has emerged from an all-over dinginess into 

 brilliant black and white, the white panelled vividly 

 into his side, and the black iridescent with purple. 

 And from the back of his head hangs down a jaunty 

 tassel, as if he were wearing a smoking-cap of Turkish 

 pattern. His still dowdy consort wears a replica of his 

 old plumage, and marks the extent of the transforma- 



