132 THE ZOOLOGIST. 



falls. Then, as I go, comes, again, the sad wail of the Diver — 



" Sad, but such as, in esteem " — 

 for it is pleasanter, far, to my ear than the happiest and 

 pleasantest sounds of the human voice, to say nothing of those 

 shrill, strident trebles and gruff growls, the more frequent repre- 

 sentatives of what we conceive to be such. 



June 10th. — Very unfortunately I sleep till past 8, for which 

 the cold, applying itself to my feet, in particular, and keeping 

 me awake for a very long time, to begin with, is chiefly respon- 

 sible — however, I should not have gone to bed at all. I have 

 only made a few steps towards my observatory of yesterday, 

 when I see both the Swans, with all the four cygnets, on the 

 water. As I watch them, one of the two makes a short flight out 

 — not more than some twenty yards or so — over its surface, and 

 coming down upon it, again, turns, and, in a moment or two, 

 flies back, each time with clear musical cries, and these are 

 continued in unison, and ring forth more loudly, when the two 

 parents, meeting again, after this short separation, swim proudly, 

 together, about the cygnets, seeming, most plainly, to rejoice 

 and exult in their family, as happy and charming a domestic 

 scene as can be imagined — even in bird life. Shortly afterwards, 

 the other Swan flies out, and returns in just the same way, and 

 the scene is re-enacted in every particular. All then disappear 

 round a promontory, and, as I crawl after them, one Swan comes 

 flying back, round another projecting point of land, from behind 

 which, as well as the other, I must necessarily be invisible — 

 showing clearly that my presence has had nothing to do with 

 these little flights. There is, however, another presence, which 

 may have had, for now a third Swan — doubtless the stranger of 

 yesterday — comes swimming up the stream, passing me at only 

 about fifty yards distance, so that I can see, through the glasses, 

 the curious red of the cheeks, like a sort of film or fine netting 

 stretched over them, which, Sigurdsson tells me, comes with age, 

 independently of the sex of the bird. 



The pair of Swans, with the cygnets, now swim towards the 

 nest, and when a little way off the shore of the mainland nearest 

 their island, one of them flies out towards the stranger bird, 

 who has, meanwhile, flown back to the same end of the lake, on 

 the opposite side. The Swan that thus flies out is, I believe, the 



