Over the prairie west of the Mississippi, flocks of these fine aristocratic birds swirl northward during May. They fly in long parabolas, sinking and rising as the whim seizes them until the undulating cloud disappears. Formerly abundant, today they are seldom seen on the Atlantic Coast in Autumn unless an onshore gale drives them in. From a fishing schooner's deck, a hundred miles or more off the New England coast, I often have seen numbers outward bound on their remarkable flight to South America.

In late September, about 1890, scattered birds or small flocks occasionally headed toward the decoys on Shinnecock Bay (Long Island) but did not alight — going by very fast some fifty yards overhead. It was a severe test of marksmanship and many more escaped than fell. The birds were so fat that they burst when hitting the sand.

Murdock says they arrive at Point Barrow while snow still covers the tundra and are very wild and noisy, uttering a loud melodious tud'ling cry. The eggs harmonized so perfectly with the white and gray moss where laid that they were extremely difficult to detect.