River and Pond Ducks 



creature with a set way of doing things quite apart, many of them, 

 from family traditions. For instance, it nests in trees rather than 

 on the ground and walks about the limbs like any song bird; it 

 never quacks, but has a musical call all its own; the lovers do 

 not cease to be such after the incubation begins — to name only a 

 few of the wood duck's peculiarities. 



Arriving from the south, already mated, in April, a couple 

 prepare to spend the summer with us by selecting a home im- 

 mediately; an abandoned hole where an owl, a woodpecker, a 

 squirrel, or a blackbird has once nested, answers admirably; 

 or, if such a one be not available, the twigs, grasses, leaves, and 

 feathers that would have lined an excavation are woven into a 

 loose, bulky nest placed among the branches. Deep woods near 

 water, or belted waterways far away from the sea coast, are 

 preferred localities. 



How the plump, squat, little mother can work her way in 

 and out through the small entrance to the hole where, for four 

 weary weeks, she sits on from eight to fourteen ivory eggs, is 

 a mystery. It is usually far too narrow for her, one would think, 

 and yet she evidently has no desire to make it larger, as she easily 

 might do by pecking at the soft, decayed wood. The handsome 

 drake on guard in a tree near by calls peet, peet, o-eek, o-eek to 

 encourage her or warn her of any threatened danger, to which 

 a faint, musical response, like the pewee's plaint, comss from the 

 hole where she sits brooding. Many endearments pass between 

 the couple, but there is no division of labor, for no self respecting 

 drake would possibly allow his affection to overrule his dis- 

 inclination for work. The duck attends to all household duties, 

 evidently flattered and content with the vocal expressions of her 

 lord's regard and his standing around and looking handsome, 

 which cost him nothing. The constant moving of his tail from 

 side to side, when perching, is his most energetic effort. 



When the fluffy little ducklings finally emerge from the shell, 

 it is the mother who has the task of carrying the numerous brood 

 to water. Often the nest is in a tree overhanging a lake, a quiet 

 stream, or pond, in which case she has only to tumble the babies 

 out of their cradle into the water, where they are instantly at 

 home. But if the tree stands back from the water's edge, one 

 by one she must carry them in her bill and set them afloat, 

 while the father swims around them on guard, proud of them, 



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