3320 THE ZooLocist—DEcEMBER, 1872. 
Common Tern.—On the 27th a young bird was picked up in 
Norwich, and taken to Mr. Gunn.—G. 
French Partridge.—A variety, having the whole of the under 
parts below the breast white, was killed in this county early in the 
month. 
Ornithological Notes from North Lincolnshire. 
By Joun Corpeavux, Esq. 
(Continued from S$. S. 3209.) 
AvuGusT, SEPTEMBER AND OCTOBER, 1872. 
Curlew.—F locks of this species, composed apparently altogether 
of the young of the year, arrived in the marshes about the middle 
of August, and for the next four or five weeks regularly daily visited 
our larger pasture-fields contiguous to the coast. I have counted 
as many as forty together, all intently searching amongst the grass 
for insects, grubs and worms, which at this season compose their 
principal food. ‘They are always rather shy, and unless on horse- 
back it was never easy to get near them, yet I managed to shoot 
four within a week by merely stooping under the drain-banks when 
I perceived them about to cross over from one feeding-ground to 
the other. They were very fat. At this season the young birds 
may be eaten, and, nicely done on toast, like a woodcock, are quite 
equal to any other of our shore birds; later in the season, when 
they draw their supply of food from the river-flats, their flesh 
becomes both bitter and unpalatable. Early one morning in this 
month a flock alighted on the roof of one of my marsh wheat-stacks, 
which was an odd place for curlew to settle upon; they perhaps 
mistook it fora rock! I have found a curious parasitic fly on this 
species; this, however, is most difficult to procure, as it leaves the 
bird directly after it is killed: they are about the size (and not 
unlike in shape) of the common housefly, but very flat, and of a light 
brownish colour: they run with great rapidity. I regret I have as 
yet had no opportunity of examining specimens minutely. The 
wailing but musical cry of the “ whaup” seems ever in keeping with 
the dreary character of our marshes and coast. To me there is ever 
a chord of sadness in this call—speaking of Nature, and of Nature’s 
wildest solitudes, the moorland summit or the lonely wave-washed 
shore, and which tells not of the haunts of men or the roar and 
