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a series of fights with Chicken, and kept them up for several days, until both had lost nearly all the pretty feathers on their heads, and Chicken was obliged to give up part of his domain, retaining the house and Sandy Bay, while Scrag has Boatshed Beach. The boundary is a bunch of fallen timber, and they keep it fairly well, only Scrag is tempted up to the house sometimes for scraps, when he knows he is poaching, and will run with whatever he gets and eat it on his own ground. Chicken often hunts him to the boundary, but Scrag will not run a yard past it, so that they often have a fight down there, but nothing very serious. They jump up and kick like common fowl, but the claws are very weak, and can have no effect on such tough hides as theirs; and their wings are soft and fluffy, and only useful to hide their heads when down at the end of a round. The beak is the weapon, and the head the only place they aim at, so that there is a lot of shaping and fencing for very little bloodshed ; in fact, their whole aim appears to be to disfigure each other by plucking the feathers that contribute most to personal appearances. At all events, that is the result of their battles. If Chicken was fighting for a mate now he would have no chance at all, for he looks so scrubby about the head that no selfrespecting Maori-hen would look at him. The hens seem to have the same object in view when they fight, and it is equally effective. There was a pretty little hen here until she got her head plucked and lost all her good looks, and now she is always calling for a mate, but apparently cannot find one. This is surely an advance on the old method of deciding between rivals, for science has a better show, and there is less cruelty, yet the desired effect is attained. Chicken can dance beautifully when he likes, which is very seldom, and very little of it at that. He waves his wings, dives his head, swings it to and fro, and then, with a flap, a jump, and another wave of the wings, he blinks his eyes as if he forgot the rest. Yet he has the right idea, and knows perfectly well what is graceful in motion. He has also some idea of " showing off," his beauty-spots being the bared primaries, which he shows to the best advantage by stretching his wings forward towards the ground, at the same time making himself tall and full breasted; but the humour takes him just as seldom as the dancing. I found their nest about 200 yards away, in the sunniest place they could find, on a little hill. It is sheltered from the rain by the drooping flax-leaves, is deep and warm, and lined with frayed and dead flax. Every evening she used to go up there and call for him, and if down at the house he would answer and go away at once. They were always clucking and croaking about there, but I could never find any eggs in it. On the 24th August, in the early morning, Chicken marched into the house and craned his neck at my hands with unusual eagerness. I thought he must be very hungry, and I gave him some food, which, contrary to his usual custom, he took up and carried away, trotting along the beach with his neck stretched out as if he was in a great hurry. After breakfast, when working at our big boatshed, we noticed him passing several times with some tiny grub or worm in his bill. I thought he must be feeding his mate while hatching, and went away to see the nest, but it was empty and cold. Yet all that day he was running back and forward until evening, when his gait gave the idea that he was tired out with so many journeys. Late in the evening he stayed away, and his mate came up to the house for food. Next morning when he came I went away along his track, and Burt gave him something, which he promptly brought along, but instead of going to the nest he turned away in the bush, and I had to follow his beaten track until I heard him clucking, and soon saw him under the bushes breaking up the food and calling his mate to feast. I saw her on a new nest, but fearing she might forsake that also I came away and left them. A day or two later, when both were at the house, I went away to see the eggs ; but the nest was empty —no eggs and no young ones. "All a hoax," said I, "or else the rats have eaten them." But next day, when coming home, we met them near the beach, and they scolded and threatened the dogs, so that I knew they had chickens ; but I had to wait a long time before the old ones got confidence enough to call out of their hiding three tiny little black chickens, which were just able to stagger about, yet with sense enough to scramble under cover when the old ones told them to do so. They gradually brought them nearer the house until they occupied a sheltered corner, where the little ones remained while the parents went away for food. They are the very best of nurses. The male in particular is never tired of running here and there and bringing home something. They seldom succeed in getting more than enough, because when we give them too much they cram the little ones until they cannot eat another scrap, and then the old ones become solicitous, and hold up food to them with a crooning, pitiful note, as if they feared the little gluttons were going to die because they could not eat. On a wet day the parents look miserable running about in the wet, but the little ones will be stowed away in some cosy nook, and never think of following the old ones without a great deal of calling and coaxing. In this matter they appear quite intellectual compared with other fowl; but they may have learned the idea before the advent of rats, and retained part of it for more than a hundred generations after its utility had become doubtful. That is in theory. In practice there are as many wekas as can get a decent living, many of them being poor and insufficiently fed, for which they can thank the rats. Recently I left a penguin's egg near a rat-hole, and when I returned ten minutes later the egg was gone. The rats are numerous and fierce, and why they have not eaten the little chickens when both parents are away I cannot understand, especially when they are so often in holes that would just suit the rats. The staple food of the wekas appears to be sand-fleas, which are here in plenty, not only on the beaches, but all through the bush, under the dead leaves and rubbish ; and they are never tired raking over this and pulling about the sea-weed in search of them. They also pull about the dead grass and turn over every chip in search of other things, but it is all done with the beak—they are not such fools as to go kicking things all over the place like common fowls. The sand-fleas are lively, and can make long jumps, so that whilst a rooster would be turning round to