Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

But the characteristic birds of the marshes at this season are Swallows. They outnumber many times all the rest of the marsh birds together—in fact, are present in such myriads that their gatherings are one of the most interesting and impressive phenomena of the bird life of this region.

Five species are represented. Named in the order of their abundance they are the Tree, Bank, Barn, Eave, and Rough-winged Swallows. The last are comparatively rare, while the Tree Swallows are so in excess of all the species named that the following remarks relate largely to them alone.

Although Tree or White-breasted Swallows nest locally throughout North America, from the tableland of Mexico to Labrador and Alaska, there are but few instances of their breeding in the lower Hudson River valley, where they appear only as migrants or transient visitants. They arrive from the south early in April, and their northward migration is not concluded until about June 1st. During June they are rarely seen, but between the 1st and the 5th of July they begin their journey to their winter homes—a movement which inaugurates the fall migration.

This stage of their journey takes them only to certain marshes, which become stations on their line of travel where countless numbers of their kind, impelled by the flocking impulse, gather to roost in the reeds. Their numbers increase steadily through July and August, the maximum of abundance being reached about September 1st; then they gradually become less numerous, and by October 10th comparatively few remain, though if the weather be favorable, they may be observed daily until late in the month.

Throughout this period—from July to October—the marsh is used only as a dormitory, the reeds evidently offering suitable perches to these weak-footed birds, who in the morning radiate throughout the surrounding country and in the evening return to the marsh to sleep. In the evening they fly low, and the altitude and time of their flight make them conspicuous. In the morning they fly high, as though bound to some distant feeding ground, and at so early an hour that they usually escape observation. The evening flight, therefore, is generally considered as truly migratory, when, in fact, the same birds doubtless pass over a given locality night after night, perhaps for weeks, in returning to their roosts in the marshes.

These evening flights begin about two hours and a half before sunset, when the birds, after resting during the late forenoon and early afternoon, usually on some telegraph wire,^{48} begin to wheel and circle over the fields in pursuit of their evening meal, when one might imagine they were resident birds, but observation will show that the general trend of their movement is toward the roost.

This continues for an hour to an hour and a half, a cloudy evening hastening their actions, when their flight becomes more direct. Few birds pause to feed, but hurry on to the roosting places, and as the light fades the last birds rush through the gloom with arrowy speed and directness. The birds pass in straggling flocks, and periods of abundance are succeeded by intervals of scarcity, as though the individuals which had been associated during the day were journeying home together.

Thus the Swallow’s evening flight may be observed throughout the region surrounding the marshes; even in New York city they may be seen feeding above the houses, and after sunset flocks of swift-flying birds are often confused by the telegraph wires, which, however, their dexterity of wing permits them to pass without serious harm.

In the marshes the first birds are seen about two hours before sunset. Many follow the course of the river, and if one be at its border splash after splash is heard as the birds dip lightly into the water, followed by soft fluffs as arising from the stream they shake their plumage. Soon the air is filled with Swallows, all streaming toward the roost with increasing swiftness.

Many birds, however, as though waiting for some tardy comrades, rest by the way, perching on telegraph wires should they cross the marsh, or when these are wanting, on the tips of the reeds. They invariably face the wind, and when it is from the west the last rays of the sun striking their white breasts make them appear like snowy flowers crowning the reeds. Suddenly, with a rush, they whirl onward to the roost.

Thus far the exact location of this roost has defied my search. I have, however, roughly defined the bounds of that section of the marsh in which it is placed by observation stands at which the Swallows flew north and south respectively, and somewhere between the two I still hope to discover the Swallows’ sleeping haunts.

The following description of their departure from the marshes in the morning is abstracted from my journal, under date of August 15, 1886: “A cool, clear morning, with a light northwesterly wind. I reached the marshes shortly before five o’clock, when they appeared to be deserted, not a Swallow being in sight. At two minutes of five the first birds were observed, then flock after flock they came until at five the air was filled with hurrying forms, flying at varying altitudes toward the north.

“Suddenly, from the meadows near me there arose a vast cloud of Swallows, doubtless birds which had come from farther south in the marsh before my arrival. Steadily they mounted upward, until having attained a height where with a strong glass they appeared faint dots against the sky, they slowly winged their way northward.

“All the time the meadows were alive with birds feeding in every direction; gradually they passed to the north, when another huge flock arose from the marsh, and after gaining an immense height disappeared, this time toward the east.

“As the sun rose over the Palisades few birds were on the wing, but great flocks were perched in the reeds on the banks of the creek, and as in my canoe I drifted slowly up to them, they seemed unmindful of my presence, when, as though at a signal, they arose as one bird, and after hovering lightly overhead returned to the reeds.

“The tide was low, and along the shore several Sora Rail were feeding, and, as carried by the tide I floated noiselessly by, they paused in their search for food, and with tails upraised regarded me with evident astonishment. A mink approached the shores of a small inflowing stream, hesitated, then plunged in, crossed, and disappeared in the tall grasses on the opposite side. The air was vocal with the calls of Red-winged Blackbirds, the _chink_ of Bobolinks, and the rattle of Swamp Sparrows.

“On a reed-grown point below was another great army of Swallows. With surprising regularity a detachment left it every fifteen minutes; thus, birds left at 6, 6.15, 6.30, and 6.45, when the reeds were deserted. The departing birds did not arise alone, but the entire flock arose at once, then divided into two flocks, one of which flew northward while the other returned to the reeds. Many of the departing birds alighted on the reeds farther up the creek; their numbers constantly received additions from the ranks of passing birds, and thus new flocks were formed.

“At eight o’clock the last Swallows had left the reeds in my vicinity, but birds were constantly passing toward the north, and this straggling flight continued until nine o’clock, when again the marshes appeared deserted.”

Subsequent observations have been made largely from a road crossing the marsh, the telegraph and electric-light wires which border it being the resting place of vast numbers of Swallows, both at night and in the morning. Particularly do they throng the wires near the creek, which flows north and south through the marsh, and which, it is interesting to observe, forms a natural highway for the Swallows as they go to and from their roosts.

On the sides of this road are several small maple trees, to which the Swallows often resort in such numbers that their foliage trembles as though in a strong breeze, it not being the birds’ object to perch in the trees, but to flutter among the dew-laden leaves, and apparently bathe in the moisture they contain, while between the baths they rest on the smaller terminal twigs, when they are very difficult to observe.^{49} This habit does not appear to have been previously recorded, and I am by no means certain that the explanation offered is the true one.

Frequently one or more flocks, varying in size from eight or ten to several hundred birds, may be seen in the road, where I at first supposed they were “dusting,” but soon noticed that most of the birds after alighting in the road were motionless. They did not move about as though searching for food, but occasionally the actions of a pair enabled one apparently to determine the sex of each individual, and more often a bird would pick up a bit of dried grass and fly up into the air with it. Sometimes it was carried fifty yards or more and then dropped; at others, the birds would carry it to the telegraph wires above, and drop it after perching a moment. Without exception, all the birds seen to alight in the road were in the dull, immature plumage of birds of the year, and in their actions, as Mr. William Brewster has remarked (The Auk, 1898, p. 194), they evidently gave a premature exhibition of the procreative and nest-building instincts.^{51}

Additional evidence of the possession of inherited knowledge was apparently given by many Tree Swallows, who were frequently seen hovering about a pile standing in the creek.^{50} At first it was supposed that these birds were feeding on insects which had alighted on the pile; but the number of birds—often a dozen or more—seen fluttering about it, and the persistency with which they remained there, forced the conclusion that in a wholly unreasoning way they were looking for a nesting site.

Swallows are not known to migrate by night, and, so far as I am aware, no single Swallow has ever been found among the thousands of night-flying birds which have perished by striking lighthouses. The Swallows, therefore, when migrating probably leave the marsh during the day, but in what manner who can say?

Several times when crossing the marshes on the cars I have observed gatherings of Swallows which made the immense flocks observed daily in August and September seem little more than a family of birds. They appeared in the distance like a vast swarm of gnats; it was as though all the Swallows in the marsh had collected in one great storm of birds. The significance of this movement I have never had the fortune to determine, but it seems highly probable that it is connected with the inauguration of an actual migration toward the birds’ winter quarters.

TWO DAYS WITH THE TERNS

Terns are useless for food, and can not therefore be classed as “game birds.” So far as we know they are of no special economic value. Consequently, when one protests against their practical annihilation for millinery purposes, he is not infrequently answered: “Well, what good are they?” The question exposes so absolute a failure to appreciate the bird’s exquisite beauty and unexcelled grace—such a discouraging materialism—that one realizes the hopelessness of replying.

I confess I find it impossible to describe satisfactorily just what the presence of Terns along our coast means to me. It is not alone their perfection of color, form, and movement which appeals to one, but also the sense of companionship they bring; and doubtless this feeling is emphasized by the impressive loneliness of the sea, which makes anything alive doubly welcome. And so the coming of a single one of these beautiful creatures changes the character of the bay or shore. With unfailing pleasure one watches its marvelously easy flight, its startling darts for its food of small fish, and when it disappears the scene loses a grateful element of life.

A milliner’s hunter or fisherman, however, might have made a very different reply to the unimaginative individual who asked the value of Terns. The former would have told him that they were worth about ten cents each for hat trimmings; the latter would have said that their eggs made excellent omelets; and each has done his best—the one to lay all Terns on the altar of Fashion, the other to see that none of their eggs escaped the frying pan.

In the meantime a number of bird lovers have taken up the battle for the Terns in their few remaining strongholds, and the brief history of Tern destruction and protection is full of suggestive incidents.

It was about twenty years ago that Terns first found favor in woman’s eyes, and during the few succeeding years hundreds of thousands of these birds were killed on the Atlantic coast for milliners. Cobb’s Island, on the coast of Virginia, is credited with having supplied forty thousand in a single season, and, as one of the killers recently confessed to me that he knew of fourteen hundred being killed in a day, the story is doubtless true. Their delicate white and pearl-gray feathers were, of course, badly blood-stained; but good and bad, the skins were washed and then thrown into a barrel of plaster, which was rolled up and down the beach until the moisture was absorbed from their plumage. A Long Island taxidermist used a patent churn for this purpose.

The destruction at other favorable points was proportionately great, and in two or three years one looked in vain for the Terns which had previously so enlivened our shores.

The protection afforded by an insular existence was now given a practical and striking illustration. The Terns which nested on the mainland or nearlying sand bars were soon extirpated, but on certain less accessible, uninhabited islets, they still survived.

Thus all that were left of countless numbers of these birds which once inhabited the shores of Long Island were to be found on the Great Gull Island, while Muskeget and Penikese, off the Massachusetts coast, contained the only large colonies of Terns from Long Island to Maine. The existence of the Gull Island colony being threatened by collectors, the influence of several bird lovers secured the appointment of the keeper of the lighthouse on the neighboring islet, Little Gull, as a special game warden to enforce the previously useless laws supposed to protect the Terns.

The result was both encouraging and instructive. In two years it is estimated that the colony increased from two thousand to four thousand, and it was hoped that it might prove a nucleus from which the adjoining shores would eventually be restocked with Terns. But the Government at Washington selected Great Gull Island as a desirable point for fortifications, and before even this suggestion of war the poor Terns disappeared. For one season the laborers employed by the Government feasted on Terns’ eggs; then the gradual occupancy of the eighteen acres composing the islet forced the birds to seek homes elsewhere.

Hence it follows that if one would see Terns in numbers on the middle Atlantic coast to-day, he must journey to two small islets off Massachusetts, which thus far have afforded them a refuge. Interesting it is to recall that on Martha’s Vineyard, lying between the two, are found the only living representatives of the Heath Hen, or Eastern Prairie Hen, which was once locally abundant in certain parts of the Eastern and Middle States.

In 1889 I visited the Terns of Great Gull Island, and a desire to be again surrounded by these birds, and perhaps secure photographs of them and their way of living, brought me on July 16, 1899, to Wood’s Holl, Massachusetts, _en route_ to whichever Tern headquarters it might prove most convenient to reach.

Quite unexpectedly there proved to be a small colony of Common and Roseate Terns on three islets, known as the Weepeckets, standing in Buzzard’s Bay, near the entrance to Wood’s Holl. In all, there were probably between three and four hundred birds, of which by far the greater number appeared to be domiciled on the largest of the three islands. This contains from ten to twelve acres of sand, grown with beach grass, scrub sumach, bayberries, and a few stunted pines about two feet in height.

On this apparently uninviting bit of land I passed two delightful days alone with the Terns. The accompanying photographs tell far more of the birds than pen can well express, but they convey no suggestion of the pleasure I experienced in again finding myself among them.

The birds were nesting on the upland, on the sloping grass bank, on the northwest side of the island, and on the rocky beach^{52} at its base. In the two first-named locations most of the nests were lined with grasses, but occasionally they consisted of only a slight, bared depression in the earth; while the eggs along the beach were, as a rule, deposited on wisps or piles of driftweed. There were perhaps six or eight Roseate Terns, the others were apparently all Common Terns, but as I am unfamiliar with the very similar Arctic Tern, it is possible that this species may have been present.

A Tern colony is in some respects a unit. The alarm of one bird is shared by all, and before the boat’s keel grated on the sandy beach of the largest Weepecket, the snowy-breasted birds, which in a group were resting there, had taken flight, and with their singular call told all the other Terns on the island of my invasion. At once the birds gathered and, hanging in a flock overhead, protested most vigorously against my intrusion with their purring, vibrant _te-a-r-r-r_. This cry never ceases so long as one remains near their home; it rings in the ears for days afterward, and one need only to recall it to form a clear mental picture of a sky full of hovering Terns. Occasionally this monotone was punctuated by a loud, reedy _cack_ as a Roseate Tern dashed by, or as some half-distracted bird, whose nest was doubtless near, screaming, dived close to my head with a sudden, startling swish. It seemed almost as though the bird would pierce me with its sharply pointed bill; and if it could have managed to go through the rim of my hat without damage to either of us, I should have been very glad to have sacrificed that article of apparel to such an exhibition of bravery.

As I advanced I began to discover nests. Some were on the upland, snugly placed in the grass or near a large stone,^{54} and with pretty surroundings of yarrow, sumach, or bending grasses; others were on the little shelves of the steep westerly bank of the islet; and others still on bits of seaweed among the pebbles and rocks which here formed the beach.^{55} No attempt was made to take advantage of the concealment offered by the groups of bowlders scattered along the beach, and beneath which the birds might have hidden effectively, it being presumably their object to select a site from which they could readily detect any cause for alarm. As a rule, their nests contained one or two eggs, only a single nest being seen with three.

Although by this time birds of the year should have been on the wing, few young of any age were seen—a condition which was doubtless explained by the fact that the birds, thus far, had been too much occupied furnishing the members of boating parties with souvenirs of their day’s outing, to give attention to their own household affairs.

However, the few young that were seen gave a most interesting exhibition of their instinctive appreciation of the value of both their protective colors and the power of their legs. As long as they believed themselves unobserved they trusted in the former; but the moment they became convinced that a further attempt at concealment was useless, they transferred their faith to their pedal extremities, on which they pattered off as far and as fast as their strength permitted. This observation was verified later on Penikese,^{57} where young were numerous, and the habit was well shown by the young bird figured.^{56} He was discovered squatting among the rocks, where he remained, practically at my feet, while I set up my tripod and deliberately made his picture—during which operation so inconspicuous was he that I invariably had to hunt for him each time I removed my eyes from the exact spot in which he was crouching. Wishing now to show him to better advantage, he was picked up and placed on a wisp of driftweed. At once his manner changed. My touch had broken the spell; what could be felt could be seen, and, whereas before he had been as motionless as the pebbles about him,^{57} his one object now was to get out of sight as speedily as possible. Consequently, time after time, the moment I took my hand from him he was off, and it was only by squeezing the bulb the moment he was released that I succeeded finally in securing his picture on the seaweed.

Young Terns, apparently, spend at least two days in the nest, during which time they are brooded by the parents; then they wander about within a limited space seeking the shade of a stone or bit of driftwood, always of course under the parental care. At Penikese, young of the year were seen on the wing, and the series of pictures shown represents the stages of growth from the egg to the age at which the bird takes flight.

Both the nature of the bird’s haunts and the manner in which the members of a colony spread an alarm make it practically impossible to surprise a Tern upon its nest. But by lying prone upon the ground one attracts far less attention than when standing. The hovering flock of birds gradually disperses, and those which are incubating soon return to the vicinity of their nests, hanging over them and dropping nearer and nearer,^{53} until at the end of fifteen or twenty minutes they swoop down beside them, raise their wings high over their backs, then fold them gently and settle upon their eggs.^{58}

On a second visit to the island a bit of old sail was brought, which I drew over me when lying on the ground—a plan resulting in my practical disappearance, as far as the Terns were concerned.

Obviously the only manner in which photographs of the Terns on their nests could be secured was to conceal one’s camera near the nest and retire, with a tube or thread, to a distance of a hundred feet or more. A nest was therefore selected about halfway up the bank on the westerly side of the island, the camera staked to the ground with long iron pins, and completely covered with the dried seaweed abundant on the beach below. I then attached a black linen thread to the shutter and retired about one hundred feet to the top of the bank. Almost as soon as I lay down the tumult overhead ceased, the birds scattered, and the rasping _te-a-r-r-r_ note of alarm was replaced by a variety of calls, showing these birds to be possessed of an unexpectedly extended vocabulary. One call was a chirp not unlike the White-throated Sparrow’s, a second might be written _tue, tue, tue_, and was uttered when one bird was in pursuit of another.

The seaweed not only concealed the camera perfectly, but was so abundant near the bird’s nest that the appearance of a fresh mound apparently did not even excite the bird’s curiosity, and within twenty minutes it had returned to its eggs. It happened, however, that the nature of the site chosen induced the bird to face the water, and as the camera was above, and consequently behind it, the view presented did not show it to advantage, but after several unsuccessful trials the attempt to secure a more flattering view was abandoned.^{59}

A bird was now chosen who was incubating two eggs placed in a depression in a little mound of seaweed on the beach. On this occasion the camera was placed on a driftwood box, weighted with stones, and completely covered with seaweed. These eggs were hatching, and the bird soon returned to them; but before it had come back, another bird in darting by had flown into the thread, springing the shutter, and making the picture^{60} of the nest and eggs here given quite as effectively as many a similarly inexperienced photographer could have done.

The day but one following—July 20th—these eggshells had disappeared, and the nest was occupied by two young birds with just enough strength to crawl toward the parent bird when it appeared with food.^{61} And when their appetites were appeased the parent bird took her place on the nest and brooded them with the care of an anxious hen.^{62}

A few yards from this new family were two young who could not have been over four days old, but who had left the nest for the shade of a piece of driftwood. Here they were fed by two birds—doubtless both parents—whom they seemed to recognize among the other Terns hovering above them. They were apparently fed on small fish, which the parent bird placed in their open mouths while standing just within reaching distance. None of the several pictures of these birds were wholly successful, but in all of them the old birds seem to be much more graceful in form than the parent of the newly hatched young in the seaweed.

A less experienced Tern had placed its nest of a few bits of seaweed among the pebbles, almost within reach of the waves. This bird was singularly restless, turning its head from side to side so constantly that its picture was secured only by pulling the long thread the moment after the bird moved.^{63, 64} Like all the birds photographed on the nest, it showed no alarm at the click of the shutter as the exposure was made. This surprised me not a little. The camera was usually about three feet from the bird, the exposure was necessarily rapid (¹⁄₂₅ second and stop 8), the snap of the old-style “Henry Clay,” used on the first day, or even of the less loud Iris diaphragm, could be plainly heard at a distance of several yards, and its failure to startle these nervous, easily frightened birds makes one suspect that their hearing is deficient.

The nests of the Terns that chose the upland for a home were often picturesquely surrounded by stunted sumach or blooming yarrow, but the birds here were far less easy to photograph because of the difficulty of thoroughly concealing one’s camera. The owner of an especially pleasing nesting site kept me beneath my bit of sail for somewhat over two hours, while she—if it was she—hung in the air just over her eggs, on which I momentarily expected to see her settle.^{65}

In the meantime the tide had arisen and floated my boat, which was carried by the wind across to Naushon, and I might have passed the night with the Terns, had not the Fish Commissioner’s launch taken me off in the afternoon.

It would not have been an unwelcome experience. There was an abundance of dry seaweed for a couch—a nest, I had almost said—and some cavernlike openings beneath the piles of great bowlders had a very snug and cozy look, which probably would have disappeared shortly after sunset.

Two days later I went to Penikese, and my dominant thought on recalling the experience is an intense desire to repeat it. Penikese, or at least its northern part, is an island of Terns. On the rocky beach, from which the sides of the bank lead to the rolling upland above, whichever way I looked was a Tern’s nest with its two, or, rarely, three eggs. Less frequently young Terns were seen, varying in age from those just emerging from the shell to others almost ready to fly, while overhead was a countless multitude of hovering, darting Terns, whose voices united in one continuous, grating _te-a-r-r-r_ made the air tremble. There was an occasional vibrant cack from a Roseate, but not more than a dozen birds of this species were heard. Asked to estimate the number of birds present I should have said ten thousand, though I should not have been surprised to learn that there were twenty thousand. However, Mr. George H. Mackay, of Nantucket, who may be regarded as a Tern specialist, placed the number of Terns on Penikese, in 1896, at “six or seven thousand,” and with the assistance of Mr. R. H. Howe, Jr., counted 1,416 nests containing 2,055 eggs (Auk, xiv, 1897, p. 283).

A small flock of sheep shared this part of the island with the Terns, and their presence accounted for the short grass which made the upland resemble a closely cut lawn, and permitted one readily to see the Tern’s eggs when several yards distant. For the same reason the birds could be seen even more plainly, and my most pleasing memory of Penikese is the greensward dotted with the white forms of breeding birds, who had returned to their nests after I had partially concealed myself behind a bowlder.

In or near the nests many dead young birds were seen. The cause of their death was not evident, unless it may be attributed to the unguarded footsteps of the grazing sheep. If this be true, the parent birds seemed in no way to resent the sheep’s carelessness, but accepted their presence without protest; one bird even exhibited a sign of good fellowship by perching on a sheep’s back, and the length of time it remained there showed that it was by no means an unwelcome visitor.

My time on Penikese was too short to more than show what an admirable opportunity is here offered the ornithologist who desires to make a close study of the home life and social relations of Terns. The present owners of the island, the Messrs. Homer, of New Bedford, take a greatly to be commended interest in the welfare of their feathered tenants, and, through posters and the agency of their representative on the island, aim to afford the birds a much-needed protection.

What an enviable possession! What a privilege to be able to give a refuge to so large a proportion of the remaining survivors of these persecuted birds!

With no desire to underrate the services to the Commonwealth of these gentlemen, I still could wish the Terns more stable protectors. Not the State, whose record as a Tern protector does not invite our confidence, but a society of bird lovers—the Nuttall Club of Cambridge, or the Audubon Society of Massachusetts. Would it not be a fitting act for one of these organizations to ask from woman, the Tern’s chief enemy, contributions to a fund for the purchase of an asylum for her victims. Can no one so plead the Terns’ cause that many a feather-bedecked woman will be glad to send her conscience money to aid in securing their protection?

But in addition to being a home of the birds, Penikese has other claims upon Nature lovers. Here Agassiz, through the medium of his summer school, brought his pupils into direct contact with Nature, and the scene of his labors is fraught with associations to every one familiar with the inspiring history of his life. Let us keep this island sacred to his memory and the Terns.

THE BIRD ROCKS OF THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE

PERCÉ AND BONAVENTURE

The naturalist realizes with the utmost sadness that the encroachments of civilization are rapidly changing the conditions of animal life on this small sphere of ours, and that soon he may find Nature primeval only in its more remote or inaccessible parts.

Forest life vanishes with the demand for timber, which sends the axeman in advance of the agriculturist. The tillable plains, prairies, and bottom lands are transformed by the plow. The sandy beaches suffer with an eruption of summer hotels and cottages, and within the confines of civilization only such useless portions of the earth’s surface as the arid deserts and barren mountain tops, marshy wastes and rocky or far-distant islets, have been unaltered by man.

It is especially to the preserving influences of island life that we owe the continued survival of many animals which have greatly decreased or become exterminated on the mainland, as has been remarked of the Terns and Heath Hen—two illustrations among hundreds that might be given. Certain animals, therefore, are not only more abundant on islands, but, if their home be not shared by man, they exhibit a tameness surprising to one who has known only the timid, man-fearing creatures of the mainland.

On several uninhabited West Indian islets the sailors of Columbus killed Pigeons and other birds with sticks, or caught them in their hands. Darwin writes of the “extreme tameness” of the birds of the Galapagos, and tells of pushing a Hawk off its perch with the muzzle of his gun. Moseley, on Inaccessible and Kerguelen Islands, had similar experiences.

The Albatrosses of the Laysan Islands show far less fear of man than do barnyard fowls—in short, if it were necessary, hundreds of instances might be cited to show that distrust of man is an acquired and not a natural trait of animals.

Having these facts in mind, therefore, I bethought me of some island or islands which were neither at the antipodes nor either pole, and where birds were not only abundant, but in such happy ignorance of man that no difficulty would be experienced in securing their photographs. These would not only have a present interest and value, but would also form permanent records of conditions already threatened by the destructive tendencies of the age.

After carefully considering all the more easily reached islets of the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, my choice fell on certain of the bird rocks of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The name bird rock is used in both a general and a special sense. In the former it may be applied to many of the rocky islets of the gulf, in the latter it relates exclusively to _the_ Bird Rocks at the northeastern end of the Magdalen group.

Percé Rock, Bonaventure Island, the Magdalens, and the Bird Rocks themselves seemed to offer the best opportunities to the bird photographer, and, accompanied by my best assistant, I departed for the first named on July 2, 1898.

Percé Rock^{71} (so named because its base has been pierced by the action of the waves) lies about three hundred feet off the land at the town of Percé, on the west side of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

A semiweekly steamer from Dalhousie, near the head of Bay of Chaleur, furnishes the regular means of communication with Percé, and the town at once possesses a distinction over any place on the line of a railway. For, aside from every other reason, there is a pervasiveness about the smoke of a railway locomotive which contaminates the atmosphere and robs local influences of half their potency. Doubtless there are persons who would be glad to change the aroma of Percé’s fishyards for the stifling air of a railway tunnel, but give me the pungent odor of Percé’s drying cod unadulterated.

Even the steamer does not touch Percé, and we were landed by a boat in a sea just rough enough to make the experience interesting. At the pier no hotel agent greeted us, for Percé possesses neither hotel nor boarding house, and summer resorters are almost unknown. This was a delightful discovery. We had come in search of an isolated colony of birds, and we found also an isolated colony of man—quaint fisher folk whose _patois_ French had a gratefully foreign sound.

Lodgings were secured at the home of a retired fisherman, and immediately we sallied forth to pay tribute to the Rock from the nearest point on the mainland. Its size and precipitousness were both surprising and impressive. Seen from the land it seemed like the hull of some great ship which had gone ashore here in the age of the Titans. Nearly three hundred feet high at the bow, with a beam of about one hundred, and a length over all of twelve hundred feet, it was not likely to be boarded by the most nimble seaman.

Doubtless an expert climber, properly equipped with ropes and assistants, might reach the summit; but as the last man to make the attempt, some fifty years ago, lost his life, the town authorities have imposed a fine of five pounds on any one who shall be found guilty of scaling or trying to scale the Rock, and the law, incidentally, protects the birds as well as man.

The top of the Rock is occupied by a colony of probably between two and three thousand Herring Gulls and Double-crested Cormorants. The guidebooks array these birds in picturesque cohorts which make the Cormorants’ part of the Rock black, the Gulls’ white; and they further state that should a black bird chance to trespass on the Gulls’ territory, he is immediately surrounded by a consuming white cloud, and _vice versa_. But be it said to the disgrace of man and the credit of birds, that the Cormorants and Gulls nest side by side apparently on terms of the greatest amity.

At this point it should be stated that my photographic outfit consisted of an ancient but useful 4 × 5 “Waterbury Detective,” containing a wide angle, short-focus lens, and designed for general handwork; a 4 × 5 long-focus “Premo” with a 6½-inch trade lens and Unicum shutter, for use from a tripod or in photographing nests, landscapes, etc., and a 5 × 7 twin lens with a 10-inch lens and Prosch shutter, a camera made especially for animal photography, but which was undesirably bulky.

None of these was of service in photographing the inhabitants of Percé Rock from the land, nor could a telephoto be used to advantage, the Rock being so much higher than the adjoining mainland. From a boat near the base of the southeast side of the Rock a better opportunity is afforded for photographing its summit, and the best of several attempts made at this point is here presented.^{72} Examined under a glass it conveys some idea of the number of birds occupying the top of the Rock; and while one regrets that the camera does so little justice to the subject, one can not but rejoice that here, at least, is one place to which probably for all time birds may return each year and rear their young in perfect security.

In crevices in the face of the Rock numbers of Guillemots nest, and directly above the pierced opening dwell a colony of about thirty Kittiwakes, who have apparently taken up their residence in the Rock within comparatively recent years, since none were here in 1881 when Mr. William Brewster visited Percé.

Wherever one be about Percé, in the town or out, the Rock is the prominent feature of the coast line. It dominates its surroundings as a snowcapped mountain rules its dependent ranges. To the bird lover it possesses a double fascination, and one is constantly attracted by the ceaseless cries of the throng of hovering birds, who in some indescribable way seem to invest their home with a sense of the charm, the freedom, the wildness of a sea-bird’s life. It is a true _bird_ rock; man has no part in it.

At sunset this bond between the Rock and its inhabitants seemed especially strong and real. Through a notch in the western hills the last rays of the sun fell squarely upon the Rock, illuminating it and the ever-present soaring Gulls after the land and the sea were in shadow. Slowly the light left the Rock, until it, too, was of the same gray-blue as its surroundings; then, like the beams from a searchlight, it struck the circling mass of Gulls, making them seem a flurry of snowflakes descending into the gloom below.

The pilgrim to Percé Rock will find that the object of his journey not only exceeds in grandeur his brightest imagination of it, but he will be further rewarded by discovering Percé itself and the country round about to be of exceptional interest and beauty. It was the season of codfishing, and every morning a fleet of a hundred or more stanch little boats, each with two men, put out into the bay for a day’s fishing. Their return, late in the afternoon, was an eventful part of the day. Then the beach was the center of attraction as boat after boat came in, the men depositing their catch on the sands, then setting up their tables and “splitting” the cod with surprising dexterity.^{73}

This industry resulted in a singular habit among the Herring Gulls, which, when first seen, I was at a loss to explain. In a cultivated hillside bordering the town a flock of about fifty Gulls was observed eagerly devouring some food, which was apparently abundant. “Grasshoppers,” I thought, but on investigation the grasshoppers proved to be entrails, heads, vertebræ, etc., of codfish, which had been strewn over the fields as fertilizer. The Gulls took wing at my approach, and perched in long rows on the fences; a curious sight, of which I tried, but failed, to secure a picture.

It was through these fields, and along the crests of the red sandstone cliffs northwest of the town, that my walks oftenest led me. A few Herring Gulls nested on the ledges, and Mr. Kearton might have succeeded in securing the photographs of them. But I freely confess to an absence of both taste and talent as a cliffman, and was quite content, under the circumstances, to view the birds from above. They, however, had no scruples about approaching me, and uttering a threatening _ka-ka-ka_, which suggested the voice of a gigantic katydid, circled about my head or, with an alarming _swish_, swooped down so near me that I invariably was surprised into “ducking.” Here also were croaking Ravens, who seemed by no means shy, and on nearly every fence post was a Savanna Sparrow, by all odds the most abundant land bird observed.

Turning from the cliffs, one soon reached the spruce and balsam forests, with their twittering Juncos, sweet-voiced White-throated Sparrows, Pine Finches, and numerous Warblers, and following the gently ascending lanes and pathways leading through the fragrant woods, arrived at the shrine-crowned summit of Mount St. Anne, twelve hundred feet above the gulf.

It is a superb view of boundless sea and forest which greets one from this vantage point—a striking combination of the charms of land and water. To the south, the Bay Chaleur with its broken coast line; to the west, a grand panorama of mountain and valley, all densely wooded—the home of bear, and deer, and caribou; to the north, a foreground of red cliffs and blue water, and, in the distance, Gaspé; to the east, the apparently limitless gulf and, seemingly beneath one, Bonaventure Island, Percé, and the Rock.

It was a view to remember; one, I trust, I may be privileged to behold again. I longed for time to explore the surrounding woods, but Bonaventure with its Gannets wielded a stronger fascination, and two days after our arrival we chartered a cod boat, with its crew, for the voyage to the Gannet rookeries on the eastern side of Bonaventure, distant about four miles.

The evident great strength of our craft in proportion to its size made it seem like a stunted vessel, and her captain and the crew, of one man, seemed built on the same lines. During the winter they were lumbermen in the region north of Ottawa, in the summer codfishers. It is doubtful if they could have selected occupations requiring greater endurance. They seemed as tough as rawhide, and as rough as pirates.

My good assistant they invariably spoke of as “the woman,” but both proved true men at heart, and as solicitous for our welfare as though their own lives of exposure had not trained them to laugh at hardship.

I may seem to give undue attention to the boatmen of a day; but there are days and days in our lives, and with neither my companion nor myself will time dim the memory of the day off Bonaventure.

There had been a heavy blow from the east the night before, the tide was ebbing, and ere we had passed the Rock, and while still under the lee of Bonaventure, our boat began to toss in a very disquieting manner. As we rounded the southwest end of Bonaventure we were more exposed to the action of the waves, but my physical balance was sustained by the anticipation of seeing “two, tree million of bird,” which the men declared would soon be visible on the cliffs.

The farther we advanced the less shelter had we from the land, and finally, passing the northwest end of the island, we were at the mercy of the full force of a long rolling sea, which made it impossible to stand, or even sit, without clinging to one’s surroundings. At this point, I believe, the promise of the most wonderful sight in the bird world would not have induced me to continue on our course another minute; but fortunately no promise was required, the sight itself existed, and under its inspiration I battled with weak nature for the next half hour with a courage born of enthusiasm and a desire to picture the wonders of the scene before me.

On the ledges of the red sandstone cliffs, which rose sheer three hundred feet above the waves at their base, was row after row of snow-white Gannets on their nests.^{75} Their number was incredible, and as we coasted slowly onward, the red walls above us were streaked with white as far as one could see in either direction, and the hoarse cries of the birds rose in chorus above the sound of the beating waves. It was a wild picture, which the majesty of the cliffs and the grandeur of the sea rendered exceedingly impressive.

How I longed for the internal composure of my boatmen! One moment I bowed to the waves, the next propped myself against the mast and, held by the captain, attempted to use the twin-lens camera. Water, cliff, and sky danced across the ground glass in bewildering succession, as, like a wing-shot, I squeezed my pneumatic bulb and snapped at the jumping sky line.

One or two exposures were followed by collapse, and in time by partial recuperation, which permitted fresh efforts. In the picture presented the cliff is well shown, but the birds are not so numerous as in others less successful photographically. And during this time how fared my assistant? Charity forbids a reply. I will only say that, in response to a hail from a passing fisherman, our captain shouted, “_Son malade!_”

The supply of 5 × 7 plates exhausted, we came about, and sailing before the wind quickly reached the leeward side of the island, where, under the reviving influence of calmer water, we determined to revisit the Gannets, this time, however, by land.

Disembarking at the fishing village, which is situated on the west side of Bonaventure, we were soon in the spruce and balsam forests, which occupy all but the borders of the island, here about a mile and a half in width. The change from the turmoil and vastness of the sea to the quiet and seclusion of the forest made the previous hour’s experience seem distant and unreal. The wind which had roared through our rigging now breathed peacefully through the tree tops; the heaving, frothy sea was replaced by stable earth, wondrously carpeted with snow-white cornel and dainty twin-flowers;^{76} instead of the harsh cries of the Gannets, we heard the Ave Maria of the White-throated Sparrow. Rarely have the woods seemed so beautiful. Approaching the eastern cliffs, the trees became dwarfed and singularly malformed by the winds. Finally they disappeared altogether, and were succeeded by fields blue with iris. Never have I seen this plant so abundant. There were acres of flowers reaching to the very edge of the cliffs, where, with only a change in the tint, the blue of the iris faded into the blue of the sea.

We were now nearing the Gannets; desiring to secure a picture of a fully occupied ledge, I urged due caution, and advanced quietly to the edge of the cliff. The point was well chosen—almost directly beneath us, and about halfway down to the sea, there being a broad, rocky shelf so thickly dotted with nesting Gannets that every bird in the group was within reach of his immediately surrounding fellows.^{77} It was an astonishing picture of bird life, but only a fragment of what we had beheld from the sea. Under the circumstances, however, this fragment brought more satisfaction than had been before received from the entire Gannet colony.

The 4 × 5 “Premo” was now erected, care being taken to make no move which would alarm the birds, and several exposures were made at leisure. Then changing the lens to an old “Henry Clay,” and attaching several elastics to the shutter, I prepared to make a flight picture of the birds as, at the report of my gun, they left their nests. All ready, I took firm hold of the bulb and gave the word to the captain to fire.

The result may fairly be called a failure. As far as we could determine, the birds gave no evidence of hearing the shot or the others which followed, and our best efforts did not succeed in making a single Gannet leave its nest. Like Darwin’s Hawk and Moseley’s Penguins, these birds seemed happily ignorant of man and his ways. One could doubtless descend to their ledge without causing them to leave it.

It is conceivable that the wearing of Gannets’ heads, or feet, or wings may some day become fashionable, but unless the demand be urgent and the price sufficient to tempt men to risk their lives, the Gannets will long continue to nest on the cliffs of Bonaventure.

THE MAGDALENS

From Percé to the Magdalens by sea is about a hundred and twenty miles, but lacking a proper vessel we were forced to return to Dalhousie and there take the International Railroad to Pictou, where a weekly steamer leaves for Prince Edward Island and the “Madalenes,” as the natives call them.

The journey is possessed of both present and historic interest, and the hospitality for which the residents of Pictou are noted assures one of a pleasant stay in their picturesque little town. Here I met a veteran ornithologist—James McKinlay—who, although over threescore and ten and isolated from others of kindred tastes, still possesses the enthusiasm of the genuine naturalist. His collection, the greater part of which he has presented to the Pictou Academy, contains, among other birds, a Brown Pelican, a Corncrake, and a Chuck-will’s-widow—all shot in the vicinity.

The Magdalen steamer is neither a yacht nor an ocean greyhound, but answers very well for the short voyage of a hundred and fifty miles across the gulf. Pictou was left at noon, and the following morning we awakened to find the steamer at anchor off an island with red sandstone cliffs, and green fields rising gently into hills clad with stunted spruce forests. This was at the southern end of the long sand bar which joins these so-called islands; and our destination, Grand Entry, near the northern end of the chain, was reached late in the afternoon.

At this point we embarked in a small sailboat, and in a driving rainstorm flew before the wind across a bay two miles in width, and up an arm a mile or so in length, to the settlement of Grosse Isle, on the island of the same name. The tide was out; Black-backed Gulls were feeding on the flats, and Gannets fishing in the deeper water; Guillemots rose before the boat; a seal showed itself for a moment and disappeared—moving figures in a picture which impressed itself very vividly on my memory. A landing was made with difficulty, and a walk of nearly a mile through the scrubby spruces brought us to the home of the fisher folk, who had agreed to take us in.

If Percé is isolated, Grosse Isle is in another sphere. Even the weekly steamer which plies between Pictou and the Magdalens from May to November comes no nearer than Grand Entry, and its arrival seemed a rather vague incident, made real only by the appearance of mail.