ssed.

During this transition time some of our friends are hardly recognisable;
we may surprise the scarlet tanager in a plumage which seems more
befitting a nonpareil bunting,--a regular "Joseph's coat." The red of his
head is half replaced with a ring of green, and perhaps a splash of the
latter decorates the middle of his back. When he flies the light shows
through his wings in two long narrow slits, where a pair of primaries are
lacking. It is a wise provision of Nature which regulates the moulting
sequence of his flight feathers, so that only a pair shall fall out at one
time, and the adjoining pair not before the new feathers are large and
strong. A sparrow or oriole hopping along the ground with angular,
half-naked wings would be indeed a pitiful sight, except to marauding
weasels and cats, who would find meals in abundance on every hand.

Let us take our way to some pond or lake, thick with duckweed and beloved
of wild fowl, and we shall find a different state of affairs. We surprise
a group of mallard ducks, which rush out from the overhanging bank and
dive for safety among the sheltering green arrowheads. But their outspread
wings are a mockery, the flight feathers showing as a mere fringe of quill
sticks, which beat the water helplessly.

Another thing we notice. Where are the resplendent drakes? Have they flown
elsewhere and left their mates to endure the dangers of moulting alone?
Let us come here a week later and see what a transformation is taking
place. When most birds moult it is for a period of several months, but
these ducks have a partial fall moult which is of the greatest importance
to them. When the wing feathers begin to loosen in their sockets an
unfailing instinct leads these birds to seek out some secluded pond, where
they patiently await the moult. The sprouting, blood-filled quills force
out the old feathers, and the bird becomes a thing of the water, to swim
and to dive, with no more power of flight than its pond companions, the
turtles.

If, however, the drake should retain his iridescent head and snowy collar,
some sharp-eyed danger would spy out his helplessness and death would
swoop upon him. So for a time his bright feathers fall out and a quick
makeshift disguise closes over him--the reed-hued browns and grays of his
mate--and for a time the pair are hardly distinguishable. With the return
of his power of flight comes renewed brightness, and the wild drake
emerges from his seclusio