My ax strokes were the only sounds which broke the stillness of the November day. Half a mile west of our home the Taconic Hills country is remote as the Rockies and as lonely. There came into the quiet a steady high-pitched whistle and over the cliff shot five Whistlers! They circled the tiny valley but did not alight in the little brook. The curtains of memory slipt back and I remembered a Maine lake, dusted white by a nor'wester, and five GOLDENEYES disporting in smooth water under the lee bank. All flashing white and glistening emerald, the three males swung past with heads aloft, voicing sharp vibrant raap raap raap "love notes."

The females pretended they did not know what the performance was about but when one tried to swim away, an impetuous suitor headed her off and kept the two innocents within the charmed circle. And all this energy, this wild display of feathers, foam and ardor transmuted from little fish and water insects!

Goldeneyes are as hardy and weatherproof as Old Squaws and I have watched them from dune shelter, playing and feeding when spray from breaking waves smoked in the zero air. They prefer fresh and brackish waters and only leave for the ocean when these resorts freeze.