174 THE ZOOLOGIST. 



" Which-ee, which-ee, which-ee, which-ee, which-ee, which-ee, 

 which-ee-which " or "Wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, 

 wit-tee, wit-tee-wit " — one of the two, or between the two, and 

 so on, at intervals of from five to ten minutes, perhaps. It is 

 the cry of the Whimbrel when actuated by some definite idea, not 

 always clearly apparent. Beware of forming a theory that the 

 bird, as it walks, saying this, says it only at the top of each 

 little tussocky hillock with which the sopped ground is quite 

 dotted, for, if you do, it will fail you sooner or later, and the cry 

 go up from the valley, this or that one being skipped and passed 

 unmelodiously over. Still, speaking generally, these Whimbrels 

 seem to like thus to pipe from the vantage, as it were, of one of 

 the low eminences they so constantly move amongst. This 

 particular one I am watching, now, at length becomes stationary, 

 thus posted, and for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, 

 perhaps, or even longer," continues perseveringly with its witless, 

 monotonous, yet ever pleasing little " Wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, 

 wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee-wit." Then, at length, 

 from somewhere in the nearer middle distance, comes a "tor, 

 tor," as though fraught with warning and — to a quick response 

 of "Wit-tee. wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee-wit " 

 — another Whimbrel rises on the wing. The first at once 

 follows suit, like brown shadows the two come flitting to each 

 other, and from both together goes up, now, the "Wit-tee, wit-tee, 

 wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee-wit." Then 

 they wheel away from each other. One goes down some way off, 

 and is silent, the other — surely the one I have first had under 

 observation — flies back, sinks shadow-like, walks, with precise 

 little steps to his old or some close-adjoining hillock, mounts it, 

 and goes on with his " Wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, 

 wit-tee, wit-tee-wit." It would seem now that there ought to 

 come another grave "tor, tor" (or has the danger been averted?), 

 but there never does, nor any other note or cry — not even the 

 classic one — from the late-appearing bird, at least whilst I have 

 the patience to wait. But the other stands ever on his hillock, 

 and still, at moderate intervals, says, "Wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, 

 wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee, wit-tee-wit." 



(To be continued.) 



