WHEN MARCH WINDS BLOW. 139 



yet. He and his mate are enjoying themselves, 

 at any rate, diving here and there, rising from 

 the water and flying at a great pace round and 

 round, all the time they are on wing uttering a 

 series of sounds like the creaking of a rusty hinge 

 on a wooden gate. This is what the grebe's love- 

 song sounds like to me, and I have heard it many 

 times. He is a merry little fellow, and has given 

 me many hours of profitable amusement at various 

 times and seasons. When the bird does sit up- 

 right, and runs his bill over his satin-like breast- 

 feathers, he always puts me in mind of a good- 

 tempered, fussy little man trying to unbutton his 

 waistcoat. 



The crested plovers, the lapwings, seek the up- 

 land fallows now. It is most amusing to see the 

 lapwing play up to his mate, for he runs up to 

 her and bows with his crest raised, runs round 

 her, cries " Pewit," softly, " Pee-weet-weet," lowers 

 his breast to the ground, works about as if he 

 was on a pivot for a few moments ; then up he 

 springs, mounts high up, and comes swooping down, 

 causing his wings to hum again, crying, " Pewit- 

 Pewit- weet- weet-weet . ' ' 



