in the air, and dexterous in the seizure of a fish from the water, he cannot rise from an unimpressionable plane with his talons full.  On another occasion a fish was raised 4 inches on a slender stake.  The sea-eagle dislodged it several times, but could not grasp it.  Raised a further 4 inches the fish was seized without fumbling.  Eight inches or so, therefore, seems to be about the minimum height from which a bird with 6 feet of red wing and a nice determination not to bruise or soil the tips, may grip with certainty.

WHITE NUTMEG PIGEON

No birds of the air which frequent these parts attract more attention than the white nutmeg or Torres Straits pigeons (MYRISTICIVORA SPILORRHOA), which resort to the islands during the incubating season.  White with part of each flight feather black, and with down of pale buff, it is a handsome bird, strong and firm of flesh, and possesses remarkable powers on the wing.  Half of the year is spent with us.  They come from the north in their thousands during the first week of September, and depart during March.  While in this quarter they seek rest and recreation, and increase and multiply on the islands, resorting to the mainland during the day for food.  Their flights to and from are made in companies varying from four to five to as many as a hundred—­but the average is between thirty and forty.  Purpose and instinct guide them to certain islands, and to these the companies set flight.  Towards the end of the breeding season, when the multitude has almost doubled its strength by lusty young recruits, for an hour and more before sunset until a few minutes after, there is a never-ending procession from the mainland to the favoured islands—­a great, almost uncountable host.  Soon some of the tree-tops are swaying under the weight of the masses of white birds, the whirr and rush of flight, the clacking and slapping of wings, the domineering “coo-hoo-oo” of the male birds and the responsive notes of the hens; the tumult when in alarm all take wing simultaneously and wheel and circle and settle again with rustling and creaking branches, the sudden swoop with whistling wings of single birds close overhead, create a perpetual din.  Then as darkness follows hard upon the down-sinking of the sun, the birds hustle among the thick foliage of the jungle, with querulous, inquiring notes and much ado.  Gradually the sounds subside, and the subdued monotonous rhythm of the sea alone is heard.

An endeavour, from the outset destined to be futile, has been made each season in succession, to estimate the number of nutmeg pigeons passing a given point per minute on their evening flight.  With so methodical a bird, it was to be expected that the companies would have favoured points of departure from the mainland, and would fly along precise routes to a common destination.  There are thousands of stragglers all along the coast, but the main bodies keep to particular routes.