A MORNING IN RICHMOND PARK 
25 
fat Scolytus grubs, and other larvae, for this giant elm is one of 
his many larders. 
Still uttering his mocking laugh-like cry the brilliantly 
plumaged bird speeds away with strangely uneven but graceful 
flight to some other and quieter larder a little farther afield. 
At length I arrive at the smaller of the Pen ponds which 
lies at no great distance from White Lodge, the birth-place of 
the Princess of Wales, and of her eldest son, our future king. 
A small colony of grey coots have taken possession of one 
end of the pond and hold it jealously against the incursions 
of the other fowl inhabiting the water, which include a little 
gaggle of Canadian geese, a paddling of about a dozen mallard, 
and dotted here and there an odd couple of pochard, a soli- 
tary shoveller duck, and a few moorhens. Suddenly that 
whistling sound so dear to the wildfowler, and caused by the 
pinions of fowl cutting their way through the air, comes to 
my ears, and looking upwards I discover a bunch of thirteen 
mallard passing over my head at a great height. The mallard 
appear as though they would drop, but, probably owing to my 
presence, after wheeling round the water they continue on their 
flight towards Kingston and are soon lost to sight behind the tall 
trees of Isabella plantation. 
As I sit smoking the pipe of contentment on the bank, one 
of those interesting little frequenters of our lakes, rivers, brooks, 
and ponds, the lesser grebe or dabchick, suddenly appears on the 
scene, and within a dozen yards of where I am sitting, from 
heaven only knows where, for there is not sufficient aquatic 
growth on this part of the bank to hide a mouse. The dabchick 
has ever been a great favourite of mine and many a pleasant 
hour have I spent in watching and studying his habits, not only 
in his British haunts, but also in many different parts of the 
world, for the dabchick is to be found all over the globe. 
It has never, however, been my pleasure before this morning 
to watch the movements of this wonderful diver under the water, 
but so clear is this pond that I am able to follow every movement 
of my little feathered friend. 
Suddenly without causing a splash, or indeed scarcely a 
ripple, he disappears below the surface, heading for a growth 
of weeds wherein doubtless harbour the tiny fish and animalculae 
that form the staple food of the dabchick. The bird when 
swimming under water bears very much the appearance of a 
large water rat. Ah, out of the weeds he comes with a long 
piece of American weed hanging round his neck, and up to the 
surface he bobs like an animated pike float, and the next moment 
he is making for the water plants and breakfast again. Time 
flies, however, and reluctantly I leave my resting-place on the 
bank and make my way towards the big pond which to my 
disappointment I discover almost deserted. Indeed, beyond a few 
old bald coots and a moorhen or two, there is not a sign of 
feathered life to be seen on this fine sheet of water upon which 
I have so often seen a goodly company of fowl assembled. 
