130 THE ZOOLOGIST. 



grass and places them on the ground behind him, near to it, but 

 not quite so near. He then sits down beside them — not, I think, 

 on them — rises in a moment, browses a little grass, and again 

 sits down, at some ten or twelve paces from the nest. Things 

 now seem established, and I begin to make the entry of these 

 last details, but regret doing so> for I have only written a few 

 lines when a commotion of white bodies catches my eye, and, as 

 I look up, a Swan rises from right by the nest, and flies over the 

 lake (or broad stream) with a most musical and poetry-full cry 

 that might well be termed a song. My first idea, naturally, is 

 that it is one of the pair, but, the next moment, I see that they 

 are both at the nest, the male having moved from his place to it- 

 It would seem, therefore — or rather it must be — that a stranger 

 Swan has flown to the nest, from which he has been driven by 

 the indignant male, the female having remained upon it. In a 

 minute or two the male returns to the place he has left, sits 

 down there again, and all is now quiet. Both birds have their 

 heads upon their backs, and seem to have gone to sleep for 

 the night. 



9.20 p.m. — The male Swan rouses himself and comes down 

 into the water. Then, all at once, he rises from it, on the 

 wing, and flies away over the lake and low hills of its shore, in 

 the same direction as the stranger bird, and with a cry like its, 

 but not quite so sweet-toned. 



9.33. — The male comes flying back, again, with the same 

 melodious note. He comes down in a long graceful sweep, with 

 outspread wings, just off the bank, a little way from the nest, and 

 then both birds fling up their heads and utter beautiful musical 

 cries, as though rejoicing together, the female, at the same time, 

 rising on the nest — a lovely sight ! 



Since about 7 p.m., a bird has been on the water which can 

 only, I think, be the Great Northern Diver — my first sight of 

 this celebrated species, which scientific collecting, unfortunately 

 (for there really would seem to be no other), is doing its best to 

 exterminate in this its once secure home. Most of the time it 

 has floated asleep, apparently, with its head turned upon its 

 back. Now, however, at a little past 10 p.m., it begins uttering 

 its strange note — a melancholy desolate wail, but with a heart- 

 taking music in it to one who, like Jacques, can suck out 



