THE MALLARD, WILD AND IN CAPTIVITY 175 



greater portion of its immense range — in the long grass of 

 pond margins; in the woods, between the spur roots of trees; 

 and on the prairies, beside streams of the smallest size. 



Once while collecting in Montana, late in May, I found a 

 tiny water hole, barely ten feet in diameter, hiding in the 

 sunken head of a very dry coulee. For miles in every di- 

 rection stretched a billowy sea of sage-brush, already shim- 

 mering in the heat of early summer. As I dismounted to 

 scramble over the edge of the bank for a drink, up rose a 

 Mallard Duck from her nest in a thick patch of sage-brush, 

 within a yard of my feet. 



The nest was the old, familiar type — a basin of grass lined 

 with a thick layer of down from the breast of the prospective 

 mother, and a bunch of eggs that almost overflowed the boun- 

 daries of their resting-place. As I gazed in astonishment at 

 this nest and its contents beside an insignificant bit of water 

 in a landscape that certainly was not made for ducks, I un- 

 derstood how it is that this bird has been able to spread itself 

 all around the northern two-thirds of the globe. 



In captivity the Mallard is the best of all ducks, and the 

 most persistent and prolific breeder. Put a flock on any pond 

 having long grass or timber about it, keep away the rats, 

 raccoons, mink, thieves and other vermin, and each female 

 will do her utmost to surround herself with a downy flock of 

 about fifteen small Mallards, regularly every summer. In 

 the Zoological Park several nests have been built within 

 twenty-five feet of walks that are in daily use by crowds of 

 visitors, the immunity of their builders being due in each case 

 to their wonderful color resemblance to the dead oak-leaves 



