It seems to be a comparatively rare migrant on the coast of California, where it never was abundant. But it still occurs in large numbers on the coast of Washington. In some notes from Gray's Harbor, sent to me by D. E. Brown, he mentions a flock of over 500 birds seen on May 14, 1920. And S. F. Rathbun has sent me the following notes:
Late on the afternoon of May 16, 1921, we were on the south side of Gray's Harbor, Washington, on a marsh meadow bordered by the tide flats. At this hour the tide was nearly at its full, and the many shore birds that had been feeding on the flats were forced to retreat before the incoming waters and in consequence were driven close to the edge of the meadow. Not far from where we lay concealed a very large number of these had assembled on a somewhat elevated stretch of ground near the meadows border, among them being several hundred of the knots, these in two or three compact flocks all the individuals of which were facing the wind. The knots were resting quietly although there was much movement going on among the shore birds. We could easily by the aid of our glasses, see many turnstones, a few greater yellow-legs, these keeping by themselves, and in the shallow water at the edge of the flats a very large number of red-backed sandpipers and long-billed dowitchers, flanked by an immense flock of the smaller sandpipers. At this time the sun was low in the west and its almost horizontal rays fell full on the breasts of the knots, for in facing the wind they happened to be turned toward the sun, whose light intensified the pale cinnamon of their breasts, this making a beautiful sight.
Without any warning nearly all of this mass of birds suddenly took wing. As they rose, the knots keeping by themselves separated into three compact flocks and rising high in the air then flew directly towards the north giving their calls as they did so, and this appears to be a habit of the species when taking wing. Again, the knot does not appear to fly aimlessly about as do many other of the shore birds, and is generally to be seen in flocks, the individuals of which are closely associated, although at times scattering birds will be observed; and in flight by the seeming course a flock will pursue, we always receive an impression that it has some objective point in view.
Dr. W. E. Ekblaw has sent me some very full notes on the habits of the knot in northwestern Greenland in which he says:
The knot is one of the commoner shore birds of northwest Greenland, but even so, not numerous anywhere. It arrives in the land as early as the end of May, for early in the spring of 1915 when my two Eskimos, Esayoo and Etukashoo, and I were encamped at Fort Conger on Discovery Harbor in latitude 81° 45´ N., we heard the keen call of the knots flying over our camp the afternoon of May 30. The first knots that come are generally in small flocks, but they soon mate and scatter to their nesting places, only a few coming together from time to time near the favorite feeding places. If the weather of early June be inclement the flocks do not scatter so soon, but remain together until the conditions become favorable for mating and nesting. It is quite likely that some of the pairs are already mated when they arrive, for the sex organs are fully developed and ready to function upon their arrival.
In northeastern Greenland the time of arrival is about the same, for A. L. Manniche (1910) writes:
The knots arrived at the Stormkap territory in couples at exactly the same time as did the other waders; in two summers, respectively, on June 2 and May 28. While the sanderlings, dunlins, turnstones, and ringed plovers immediately took to the sparsely occurring spots free from snow, the knots would prefer to go to the still snow-covered hollows in the marshes and moors, where I saw them running on the snow eagerly occupied in picking up the seed of Carex-and Luzula-tufts the ends of which here and there appeared over the snow. This sandpiper more than its relatives, feeds on plants at certain seasons. In the first days I also observed now and then a couple of knots on snowless spots on elevated table-lands and even on the top of the high gravel banks at Stormkap. These may, however, have settled there in order to rest after the voyage and not to search food. As soon as ponds of melting snow and fresh-water beaches free from ice were to be found, the knots would resort to these, and here the birds wading or swimming looked for animal diet. In this season the knot did not appear on the salt-water shore like other waders. Gradually as more extensive stretches of low-lying table-land became free from snow, the knots occurred more frequently here in their real nesting quarters; they would, however, still for a while often visit moors and marshes with a rich vegetation of Cyperaceae.
Courtship.—Doctor Ekblaw describes this as follows:
The courtship is brief but ardent. Whether it is the females that woo the males, as among the phalaropes, or as normally the males that woo the females, it is difficult to determine, for the breeding plumages of the two sexes are quite indistinguishable. On June 3, 1916, I observed closely the courtship of three knots high up on one of the plateaus of Numataksuah, back of North Star Bay. Two males (?) were evidently pursuing one female (?), she leading, they winging rapidly in her wake, contending as they flew; apparently all uttered the shrill piercing call to which the knots so frequently give voice during the mating and nesting season of early summer, and which one rarely, if ever, hears after the young are hatched. In great circles they flew, now and then stooping to a zigzag pirouetting and dodging, again rising in wide circles until they disappeared from sight in the bright sky, though their shrill calls came to earth as sharp and clear as ever.
In the ecstasy of the mating season a single bird may indulge himself (?) in a kind of dance flight alone. He rises high above the hills, sweeping the sky in great graceful circles not unlike the stately flight of the sparrow hawk, so smooth and calm it seems. From time to time he utters the shrill, clarion call of the mating season, or the soft coo-yee that is most common about the nesting grounds. Then suddenly he drops wildly, tumbling and tossing like a night jar at sunset, as suddenly to break his fall and soar for miles on still, outstretched wings, not a movement noticeable.
Mr. Manniche (1910) refers to it as follows: