LONG-TAILED DUCK. 389 



the last-named island its occurrence is extremely irregular and 

 uncertain. 



Twenty years ago, Mr Graham, then resident in lona, favoured 

 me with some highly interesting letters descriptive of the birds of 

 that island, and from one of these I have much pleasure in selecting 

 the following notes, believing that even at this distance of time 

 they have lost none of their original vigour or freshness: "The 

 Long-tailed Duck comes to lona in the early part of November, 

 when there appears a small flock of a dozen or so which takes up 

 its station off the northern coast of the island. These are generally 

 reinforced during the frosts and severe weather of December and 

 January by fresh arrivals which are driven in from the sea, and 

 from their more unsheltered haunts, till at last very great numbers 

 are assembled in the bay. Towards the end of March this large 

 flock begins to break up into pairs and small parties; many go 

 away; and when the weather keeps fine they make long excursions, 

 and for days the bay is quite deserted. A change of weather, 

 however, will still bring them back, and a smart gale would 

 assemble a considerable flock of them, and this as late as the second 

 week in April ; but after this time you see them no more. Thus 

 we have them with us about four months : they arrive with the 

 first frown of winter, and depart with the earliest blink of summer 

 sun. The Northern Hareld brings ice and snow and storms upon 

 its wings; but as soon as winter, with his tempestuous rage, rolls 

 unwillingly back before the smile of advancing spring to his Polar 

 dominions, the bird follows in his train; for no creature revels 

 more amidst the gloom and rage and horrors of winter than the 

 ice duck. The cry of this bird is very remarkable, and has 

 obtained for it the Gaelic name of Lack Bhinn, or the musical duck, 

 which is most appropriate; for when the voices of a number are 

 heard in concert, rising and falling, borne along upon the breeze 

 between the rollings of the surf, the effect is musical, wild, and 

 startling. The united cry of a large flock sounds very like bagpipes 

 at a distance, but the note of a single bird when heard very near 

 is certainly not so agreeable. On one occasion I took great pains 

 to learn the note, and the following words are the nearest approach 

 that can be given of it in writing: it articulates them very distinctly, 

 though in a musical bugle-like tone: 'Our, o, u, ah! our, o, u, ah/' 

 Sometimes the note seems to break down in the middle, and the 

 bird gets no further than our, or ower, which it runs over several 



