58 BULLETIN 107, UNITED STATES NATIONAL MU§EUM. 
pal flight is along the coast, where they are, at times, very common, 
flying with the scoters and generally crossing headlands or long 
capes. They usually fly high in the air, singly, or in small groups 
widely scattered, but I have often seen a large number in sight at one 
time. While anchored off the coast coot shooting on foggy mornings 
in October, I have listened with interest to the laughing calls of mi- 
grating loons, which were probably keeping in touch with each other 
and with the coast line by this method of signaling in the fog. Some- 
times they stop to rest and congregate in large numbers in the water, 
several miles off shore, in what we call “conventions,” where we 
could hear, on a still morning, the constant murmur of their voices 
in soft conversational tones. It is a constant temptation to all 
gunners to shoot at passing loons, for they are swift, strong fliers and 
are very hard to stop; it is particularly exciting on a foggy morning 
when so many are heard and only an occasional fleeting glimpse is 
seen. There is no good excuse, however, for shooting them, as they 
are practically never used for food. They are exceedingly hard to 
kill, and it is well-nigh useless to chase a wounded loon. On the 
coast of Labrador loons are shot for food, and I can testify from 
experience that they are not bad eating, though I should not con- 
sider them to be in the game-bird class. 
Winter—Loons spend the winter on inland lakes and streams to 
some extent throughout their winter range, which extends as far 
north as they can find plenty of open water. As they require a large 
open space in which to rise from the water they are sometimes caught 
by the freezing of ponds, where they are either shot or starve to 
death. By far the greater number of them spend the winter on the 
seacoast, where they are usually seen singly or in small parties, but 
occasionally in large gatherings, which can hardly be called flocks, 
numbering from 40 to 100 birds, sometimes far out at sea. They 
are common on the coast of New England, swimming just outside 
the breakers off our beaches, where they are always conspicuous, 
standing up at full height to flap their wings or rolling over on their 
sides to preen their plumage, their white breasts glistening in the 
sunlight, as they swim around in a circle with one foot up in the air. 
In stormy or foggy weather they are often noisy. I believe that they 
usually sleep on the water, but when it is safe to do so they often 
come ashore to sleep. I have several times surprised one well up on 
a sandy beach, where it had been spending the night or had gone 
ashore to dry and sand its plumage. Its attempts to regain the water 
were more precipitous than graceful, as it scrambled or stumbled 
down the beach, falling on its breast at every few yards, darting its 
head and neck about, humping its back and straining every muscle 
to make speed, at which it was surprisingly successful. 
