Widgeon, I think.”

“Yes, that’s what it says here, the American Widgeon, a game bird, you know, mamma.”

“Yes, its flesh is very delicious, almost as good as the Canvas-back.”

“Oh, but these Baldpates are cunning fellows,” exclaims Bobbie, continuing his reading, “It says they are fond of a certain grass plant which grows deep in both salt and fresh water, but they don’t dive for it as the Canvas-back and other deep water Ducks do.”

“Well?” says mamma, as Bobbie stops, his lips moving, but uttering no sound.

“I stopped to spell a word,” explains Bobbie. “It says they closely follow and watch the Canvas-back and other Ducks, and when they rise to the surface of the water with the roots of the plant in their bills, Mr. Baldpate quickly snatches a part, or all of the catch, and hurries off to eat it at his leisure.”

“A mean fellow, indeed,” remarks mamma, “but he has no reason to guide him, as you have, you know.”

“Indeed I don’t know,” quickly says Bobbie. “You remember that story about the imprisoned Duck that had its leg broken and was put under a small crate, or coop, to keep it from running about? Well, some of the other Ducks pitied the little prisoner and tried to release him by forcing their necks under the crate and thus lifting it up. They found they weren’t strong enough to do that, and so they quacked, and quacked, and quacked among themselves, then marched away in a body. Soon they came back with forty ducks, every one in the farm yard. They surrounded the crate and tried to lift it as before, but again they failed. Then they quacked some more, and after a long talk the whole of them went to one side of the crate. As many as could thrust their necks underneath it, and the rest pushed them forward from behind. A good push, a strong push, up went the crate a little way, and out waddled the little prisoner. I want to know if they didn’t reason that out, mamma?”

baldpate duck.
From col. Chi. Acad. Sciences. Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1898, Chicago.

THE BALDPATE.

We would have you to wit, that on eggs though we sit,
And are spiked on a spit, and are baked in a pan,
Birds are older by far than your ancestors are,
And made love and made war, ere the making of man!
—Andrew Lang.

HERE is much variation in the plumage of adult males of this species of Widgeon, but as Dr. Coues says: “The bird cannot be mistaken under any condition; the extensive white of the under parts and wings is recognizable at gun-range.” The female is similar, but lacks the white crown and iridescence on the head.

The Baldpate ranges over the whole of North America. In winter it is common in the Gulf states and lower part of the Mississippi Valley. Cooke says it breeds chiefly in the north, but is known to nest in Manitoba, the Dakotas, Minnesota, Nebraska, Kansas, Illinois, and Texas. Throughout the whole of British America, as far north as the Arctic ocean, it is very abundant. In October and April it visits in large numbers the rivers and marshes, as well as both sea coasts of the northern United States, and is much sought by hunters, its flesh being of the finest quality, as when in good condition it cannot easily be distinguished from that of the Canvas-back. It is regarded by hunters as a great nuisance. It is not only so shy that it avoids the points of land, but by its whistling and confused manner of flight is said to alarm the other species. During its stay in the waters of the Chesapeake, it is the constant companion of the Canvas-backs, upon whose superiority in diving it depends in a large degree for its food, stealing from them, as they rise to the surface of the water, the tender roots of the plant of which both are so fond—vallisneria grass, or wild celery. The Baldpate is said to visit the rice fields of the south during the winter in considerable numbers. It winters in the Southern states, Mexico, and the West Indies. In the north, the Widgeon exhibits a greater preference for rivers and open lakes than most of the other fresh-water Ducks.

The favorite situation of the nest is remarkable, for while the other Ducks—except, perhaps, the Teal, according to Mr. Kennicott—choose the immediate vicinity of water, he found the Baldpate always breeding at a considerable distance from it. Several of the nests observed on the Yukon were fully half a mile from the nearest water. He invariably found the nest among dry leaves, upon high, dry ground, either under large trees or in thick groves of small ones—frequently among thick spruces. The nest is small, simply a depression among the leaves, but thickly lined with down, with which after setting is begun, the eggs are covered when left by the parent. They are from eight to twelve in number, and pale buff. The food of the Baldpate consists of aquatic insects, small shells, and the seeds and roots of various plants.

The call of this bird is a plaintive whistle of two and then three notes of nearly equal duration. Col. N. S. Goss states that, as a rule, Widgeons “are not shy, and their note, a sort of whew, whew, whew, uttered while feeding and swimming, enables the hunter to locate them in the thickest growth of water plants.”

WOOING BIRDS’ ODD WAYS.

f all the interesting points on which Mr. Dixon touches in his “Curiosities of Bird Life,” perhaps none is more remarkable than the strange antics in which some birds indulge, especially at the pairing season. With what odd gestures will a smartly dressed Cock sparrow, for instance, endeavor to cut a good figure in the eyes of his demure and sober-tinted lady-love!

To a similar performance, though with more of dignity and action about it, the Blackcock treats his wives, for, unlike the better conducted though often much calumniated sparrow, he is not satisfied with a single mate. One of the most characteristic of spring sounds on Exmoor, as evening darkens, or, still more, in the early hours of the morning, is the challenge of the Blackcock. In the month of April he who is abroad early enough may watch, upon the russet slopes of Dunkery, a little party of Blackcock at one of their recognized and probably ancestral meeting-places, by one of the little moorland streams, or on the wet edge of some swampy hollow. Each bird crouches on a hillock, in the oddest of attitudes—its head down, its wings a-droop, its beautiful tail raised—and utters at intervals strange, almost weird notes, sometimes suggestive of the purr of a Turtle-dove, and sometimes more like the cry of chamois.

Presently an old cock, grand in his new black coat, will get up and march backward and forward with his neck stretched out and his wings trailing on the ground. Now he leaps into the air, sometimes turning right round before he alights, and now again he