ANATID/E. 7 5

Goosanders defy the rigors of the season. In midwinter, I have been on the coast, when huge masses of ice buried up the whole shore—line, stretching seaward as far as the eye could see. One opening remained, however, to leeward of a reef. The blue waves rolled sullen ’neath the weight of the wintry wind, and dashed angry, frozen foam over the stranded floes. The air was thick with frozen mist, obscuring the distant vision, and making the dull winter sunlight more hazy still. While gazing at the wild scene, where frost and tempest held terrific sway, I have been startled to see the form of a Whistler shoot, with sounding wings, through the misty tempest, or observe the soft-voiced Pintail dip beneath the angry wave, or the stately Goosander sail calmly on its surging bosom, while the Herring Gull, with wild shriek, breasted the tempest overhead. The Whistler nests in our creeks, building under brush on the ground, and in July leads its duck— lings out on the bays. The beautiful little bird, plumed with white, black, and glossy green, in autumn days, sports innocently along the shores, diving often and rapidly, and resting quietly on the glassy surface with little fear of the spectator if it is not pursued,