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the lough uneasily. The Wigeon soon returned and pitched 

 here and there upon the ice, or alighted among the frozen tops 

 of the sedge, the cover in which, at other times, they revel all the 

 day, their mellow whistle adding a relish to the scene before us. 

 When Wigeon are frozen out of their fresh-water resorts, they 

 are compelled to stay upon the estuaries. On the 15 th of 

 December 1890 Mr. Thorpe and I walked for hours along the 

 brow of Burgh marsh. The tide had ebbed, the channel was full 

 of ice, and the shore was strewn with the debris of ice that had 

 come down the Eden. Several flocks of Wigeon swam in the 

 tideway, while others spread out in thin lines along the edge of 

 the mud. We saw two or three birds waddling about the open 

 surface of the sands, but the majority sat upon the water edge, 

 the drakes from time to time vociferating their call in musical 

 unison. When the tide flowed the punt-gunners drove the 

 Wigeon up and down the estuary. Before dark we caught a 

 female hiding up among the sods loosened by tidal action from 

 the edge of the marsh. She had belonged to a flock at which 

 we saw Bryson fire about a mile out from land, and being 

 pricked by a shot in the left wing which partially disabled her 

 for flight, had quietly paddled in to the shore for shelter. She 

 was very shy, and did not become reconciled to confinement. 

 Birds similarly injured often recover, if allowed their liberty on 

 some small pond. Mallard and Wigeon usually leave the water 

 when crippled by a gun-shot wound, deserting their companions 

 to seek safety in solitude. I have at different times dis- 

 covered some beautiful drakes of both species hiding up in the 

 cover of rushes or tall grass near the water edge when thus slightly 

 crippled. Such cripples may of course be unable to leave with 

 their companions when the season arrives at which they would 

 naturally undertake the journey to their breeding grounds. But 

 it often happens that a few full- winged birds voluntarily postpone 

 their departure until the beginning of May or even later. In 

 1889 we observed on May 6 six drake and two female Wigeon 

 at Monkhill Lough, the former being in the finest feather 

 imaginable. Our attention was first drawn to them by hearing 

 a Wigeon whistle, and, looking up, we saw a male and female 

 flighting round. They joined the main party, which we then 



