2336 The Zoologist — October, 1870. 



Nearer to me, within less ihau a hundred yards, are four birds, both 

 larger and darker-looking than the dotterel : they are running rapidly 

 about, exhibiting an energy in singular contrast to the slumbering 

 flock ; they are turnstones, birds of the year, and for the next half 

 hour I am delighted to have an opportunity of quietly watching their 

 mode of feeding. They run quickly, now here, now there, and keep 

 constantly jerking over the fragments of dried sheep-dung with which 

 the land is almost covered. In many cases this is no easy task, as it 

 is dried with the sun, flattened to the surface, as well as clover-grown, 

 yet it is surprising with what ease, by a rapid down and upward move- 

 ment of the head and shoulders, this is effected, and they seldom fail 

 to pick up some concealed insect underneath. On an examination of 

 the ground I find the dung shelters several small species of Coleoptera, 

 and on these doubtless the turnstones were feeding. 



There are many hundreds of gulls on the flats, principally brown- 

 heads, both old and young : some of the former have lost the summer 

 cap, in others it is still perfect. The gulls are, now the close season 

 is over, becoming very shy and wary : they all rise as soon as I show 

 myself, and with loud clamour seek the river. Half-way down the 

 flats a flock of knot are feeding, and my glass is again brought into 

 requisition. There appears to be about three hundred. The greater 

 portion, four out of five I should say, are birds of the year, and have 

 buff'-coloined breasts. There are others, however, which exhibit, in 

 a greater or less degree, the rusty red pectoral plumage of summer. 

 These old birds are all in a transition stale, and 1 do not see one in 

 the full plumage of summer. 



At the mouth of the creek, where the main drain enters the Humber, 

 are a pair of old great blackbacked gulls, magnificent fellows, in 

 brilliant plumage : they are excessively wary, and on this flat coast an 

 old full-plumaged bird is as diflScull to bag as the great northern diver 

 himself. As I lift my head above the level of the embankment they 

 rise, and with slow flappings make towards the centre of the river. 

 To the left of the creek some curlew and whirabrel are feeding : the 

 latter stand in a row along the edge of the river, washing and preening 

 their feathers. Two birds here cross the bank, within easy sh«t, but 

 I have no gun with me : they look like golden plover j I mark them 

 down in one of the pastures, and hope to have later in the day an 

 opportunity of making their acquaintance. Half-a-mile above the out- 

 fall there is another flock of knot; at a rough calcidation there are five 

 or six hundred. This flock, like the other previously examined, is 



