Black Mallards 



to traffic about in preparation for the autumn 

 flight. A little later the flocks fairly reveled in 

 sociability, gathering here or there with increas- 

 ing numbers, till on a late-September day I might 

 find my pond deserted, the owners being on a visit 

 elsewhere, or I might catch breath at sight of so 

 many ducks that I could not accurately count them 

 or distinguish one brood from another. 



At such a time my little pond seemed to awaken, 

 to shed its silence like a garment, to put on its 

 most animated expression, as at a happy festival 

 or family reunion. The air was never still from 

 the gabble of meeting groups (probably all more or 

 less related), or from the resounding quank, quank, 

 quank of some old gossip who went about pro- 

 claiming her opinion to the whole company. 

 Everywhere the still water was broken into un- 

 dulating wakes as the drakes swept grandly over 

 it, with that rhythmic, forward-and-back motion 

 of their heads which is like duck poetry, a motion 

 that is not seen when the birds are feeding, but 

 only when they are well satisfied with themselves 

 or their audience. Through the shadows under 

 the bank glided knots or ribbons of young birds 

 which had not yet quite satisfied their appetites, 

 some exploring every crevice for ripened seeds, 

 others tip-tilting their tails to the blue sky as they 

 probed the bottom for water-bugs and other tit- 



[269] 



