The Zoologist— September, 1874. 4143 



circles, and swiftly then shadows come and go upon the glancing 

 waters ; others sit lightly and gracefully upon the rising swell — all 

 on the look-out for scraps that may be thrown overboard or swept 

 through the scuppers of the ships. Suddenly one quick-eyed bird 

 pauses in his flight, hovers an instant, from beneath the snowy tail- 

 feathers drawing his pink feet, which for a brief space dangle in 

 ungainly fashion ere they clutch the water. Now he has snatched 

 some bulky morsel ; what a vociferous outcry, as half-choked he 

 strives to gulp it down ! his wings, not yet close-folded, he spreads 

 again for flight : attacked on all sides by his clamorous fellows, he 

 drops the envied lump, and instantly joins the common flock in 

 chase of the lucky bully that has swept off the prize. The pursued 

 now becomes the pursuer, and this continues until some widely- 

 distended throat at length entombs the object of this fierce conten- 

 tion. Here the birds among themselves, without man's interference, 

 show an amount of boldness that appears remarkable; the air 

 resounds with their sonorous cries. Seldom, if ever, is the hunted 

 bird struck by his companions; he yields his prey from fear, or 

 drops it in the attempt to obtain a fresh hold and by another catch 

 place it more easily for swallowing. If lost from fear, can it be 

 from dread of the menacing blow that seldom if ever descends ? has 

 it not instinct enough to appreciate the threatened attack at its true 

 value, judging from its own harmless bullying ? 



On the mud-flats at the head of the harbour, patched here and 

 there with a dwarf growth of Zostera and banks of time-bleached 

 shells, as the tide ebbs, flocks of godwits {Limosa Novce-ZelandidB) 

 arrive and probe the yielding surface with their long bills; their 

 call cannot be distinguished from that of their European congener, 

 although now and then a yelping sound is emitted without any 

 apparent cause, unless it be a note of satisfaction, for they feed 

 silently. Noisier, and far shriller in their notes, are the oyster- 

 catchers, which feed in company, wade in the shallow water, or 

 course along the margin with swift-plashing run. When the pied 

 stilts feed in numbers by the shores of Lake Ellesmere their notes 

 are constantly repeated, sounding not unlike the barking of young 

 dogs, whilst the oystercatcher's shrill note rather resembles the 

 running down of an alarum in the rapidity with which the sound is 

 repealed. The call of the paradise duck (Casarca) is often heard 

 in lofty flight, bringing to mind the notes of the wild geese at home. 

 Some fancy they can detect in the hoarse call of the paradise drake 



