D. P. INGRAHAM. 69 
winter of 1893 that would have stood at least a foot higher 
than that. 
Never yet when I have approached a wounded bird has 
he made any resistance or show of fight. When broken- 
winged or otherwise injured, and unable to escape, he in- 
variably drops down and sticks his head under water. With 
but two exceptions, I have never been able to drive a 
wounded bird on to the land. 
One of the most interesting observations I made was during 
my last year’s work. We always called it the “dress 
parade.” We were watching a flock of 300 or more, standing 
at rest some 4oo yards from shore, and hoping that as the 
night approached, they might commence to feed and work 
near enough to shore to be reached. About an hour before 
sunset a few birds commenced to feed, and soon a dozen or 
two of the largest males began to march backward and for- 
ward in the rear of the flock. Nearly every male soon 
joined in this concourse. The line of the flock lay about 
parallel with the shore, and the males took their position 
directly in the rear, in a solid body. As though at a given 
signal, every bird commenced to march, passed to the ex- 
treme further end of the flock, and halted, making a great 
noise, as if every bird in his loudest voice said, “Don’t I 
wear a splendid uniform?” After a moment’s pause, all 
faced about, marched back to the other end of the line, and 
then cried again, “Ain’t I a beautiful bird?” When 
marching back and forth they moved in almost as perfect 
order as a platoon of soldiers. Thus the parade continued 
for nearly an hour, until one by one the birds dropped out 
of the ranks and commenced to feed. 
