Boiled eggs and onions. 5 
and so obtain entrance to bird sanctuaries whose gates are after- 
wards found closed by the bird-photographer. On one occasion 
an individual at Ravenglass aroused the suspicions of the watcher 
owing to the number of nests opposite which he erected his camera, 
which, when forcibly examined, proved to be full of little drawers 
lined with cotton-wool, an accessory not listed by the leading 
camera-makers. That we sometimes manage to turn the tables is, 
I think, shown by the following incident: A friend of mine was 
watching some Peregrines in the wilds of Northumberland. One 
day the landlord of the little inn at which he stayed told him that 
two gentlemen had arrived from London who were egg-collectors. 
At my friend’s request no mention was made to them of his real 
occupation, but they were casually told that he knew more about 
the birds of the district than anyone else. The collectors soon 
introduced themselves and gladly accepted his guidance. Arrived 
at the eyrie, he advised them to wait a few days, as this Falcon 
always laid four eggs, but would probably desert if they took the 
one egg they found lying there. During the interval he, turned 
egg-collector, visiting many of the outlying farms, and then secretly 
resorted to the kitchen, where he boiled a number of small hens’ 
eggs of the desired shape in a saucepan, with sliced onions. As 
a result, he picked out four most beautifully blotched and browned 
eggs, and at dawn substituted them for the Peregrines’ eggs. He 
then at breakfast told the collectors of his early stroll, and opined 
they need wait no longer. They started off immediately in order 
to be able to catch the midday mail, and having seen them safely 
off to London on their return, he replaced the real eggs in the eyrie 
and had the satisfaction of learning later that the Peregrines brought 
off four young that year. He has often wondered what the 
collectors said when they tried to blow their eggs. 
I had noticed in 1910 that the Peregrines did not like the flapping 
of the canvas of the tent, so during the winter I evolved a portable 
hiding-shed in sections, made out of three-ply, and had the good 
fortune to interest a patient of mine, Mr. J. H. Bateman, who 
was making a protracted convalescence, and he made me the shed 
to my design. But nevertheless, grr turned out badly. I had 
intended starting a week earlier, but I was unable to leave, and 
