The white-headed sea-eagle is a deadly foe to the pugnacious sea-serpent also.  On the beach just above high water-mark was the headless carcase of one that must have been fully 5 feet long, and while it was under inspection an eagle circled about anxiously.  Soon after the intruders disappeared the bird swooped down and resumed his feast, and presently his mate came sailing along to join him.  The snake must have weighed several pounds, and apparently was not as dainty to the taste as the green arboreal variety, for after two days’ occasional feasting there was still some of the flesh left.

Shrewd as is the observation of the white-headed sea-eagle he is not exempt from blunders.  Though he pounces with authoritative certainty and precision, he does not discriminate until the capture is complete, between the acceptable and the unacceptable.  Generally whatsoever is seized is carried off, apparently without inspection.  Perhaps the balloon fish is the only one that is promptly discarded.  The sea porcupine (DIODON), which shares with that repugnant creature the habit of exemplifying the extent to which the skin of a fish is capable of distention without bursting, is frequently picked up from the shallow water it favours.  Short sharp needles stand out rigidly from its skin, forming a complete armament against most foes.  The sea-eagle does not always devour the sea porcupine, which at the very best is nothing more than a picking.  Amongst such a complex labyrinth of keen bones a hasty meal is not to be found, and the sea-eagle is not a leisurely eater.  He likes to gulp; and so when he has indiscreetly blundered on a porcupine he frequently unlocks his talons and shakes himself free, while the fish, inflated to the last gulp, floats away high and light, bearing on its tense silvery-white side the crimson stigmata of the sea-eagle.

When misguided fish have blundered into the trap in the corner of the bay, the sea-eagle demands a share of the easily-gotten spoil.  Perched on the tallest stake, he faithfully indicates the presence of food that he cannot obtain unless by goodwill; yet who would deny the bird of his right?  Having fulfilled his duty as sentinel, he soars to an adjacent tree, uttering that sneering twang which is his one paltry attribute, and when a fish is thrown into the shallow water he swoops down and is away with it to his eyrie.  If the sand is bare, however, he cannot, owing to his length of wing, pick up the fish in his flight.  Unbecoming as it may be to tantalise by trickery so regal a bird, a series of trials was undertaken to ascertain the height from the surface whence a fish could be gripped.  Twelve successive swoops for a mullet flopping on the sand failed, though it was touched at least six times with the tips of the eagle’s outstretched talons.  Consenting to failure, the bird was compelled to alight undignifiedly a few yards away, to awkwardly jump to the fish and to eat it on the spot, for however imperious the sea-eagle is