BIRD ROCK
If as a result of a conference between the birds and the Audubon Society a home were to be selected which should prove a secure retreat for certain of the feathered kind, I imagine that Bird Rock, in its primal condition, would have admirably filled the requirements set forth by both conferees.
With precipitous, rocky walls weathered into innumerable ledges, shelves, and crevices—all fit nesting sites—one might think of it as a colossal lodging house for the countless sea-bird tenants who find here not only a suitable place for the reproduction of their young, but in the surrounding waters an abundant and unfailing supply of food. Add to these conditions the Rock’s isolation and inaccessibility, its shoreless outline, and the difficulty with which it may be ascended, and we have indeed an ideal refuge for sea fowl, one in which, unless they were subjected to special persecution, they might have continued to exist for centuries, had not the transforming influences of civilization reached even to this isle of the sea.
Bird Rock is about fifty miles northwest of Cape Breton, the nearest mainland, and twelve east of Bryon Island, its next neighbor in the Magdalen group, to which it belongs. It is three hundred and fifty yards long, from fifty to one hundred and forty yards wide, and rises abruptly from the sea to a height of from eighty to one hundred and forty feet. Its outline, the nature of its base, sides, and summit are well indicated by the accompanying pictures.
80. Bird Rock from the southwest; distant about one half a mile.
Three quarters of a mile northeast of Bird Rock, or Great Bird, as it is more specifically called, lies Little Bird, a red sandstone rock which at high tide, or from a distance, appears as two. The shallow water between Great and Little Birds suggests the possibility of a past connection and the probability that in some future geological age the waves will have completed their work of destruction, when both islands will have disappeared.
The history of these bird-inhabited islands is interesting, and gives us some information of the changes which man has wrought in their bird life. It begins with the account given by Jacques Cartier of his voyage to Canada in 1534. Of the Bird Rocks he wrote: “We came to three islands, two of which are as steep and upright as any wall, so that it was not possible to climb them, and between them is a little rock. These islands were as full of birds as any meadow is of grass, which there do make their nests, and in the greatest of them there was a great and infinite number of those that we called Margaulx, that are white and bigger than any geese, which were severed in one part. In the other were only Godetz, but toward the shore there were of those Godetz and great Apponatz, like to those of that island that we above have mentioned. We went down to the lowest part of the least island, where we killed above a thousand of those Godetz and Apponatz. We put into our boats as many as we pleased, for in less than one hour we might have filled thirty such boats of them. We named them the islands of the Margaulx.”
Concerning this quotation Mr. F. A. Lucas remarks (The Auk, v, 1888, page 129): “While this description, as well as the sentences which immediately precede it, contains some statements that apparently are at variance with existing facts, there is nevertheless good reason to believe that Cartier here refers to the Bird Rocks in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The birds called Margaulx, which bite even as dogs, were Gannets, whose descendants, in spite of centuries of persecution, are to be found to-day nesting where their ancestors did before them.
“That Cartier’s description does not accord with their present appearance is not to be wondered at. The material of which they are composed is of a soft, decomposing, red sandstone that succumbs so easily to the incessant attacks of the sea that Dr. Bryant’s description of them in 1860 does not hold good to-day. If, then, the Bird Rocks have undergone visible changes in twenty-five years, it is easy to imagine how great alterations the islets may have undergone during three and a quarter centuries.”
Examination of the narratives left by other early voyagers in this region would yield further information concerning the Rocks and the destruction of its inhabitants; but passing to records of greater ornithological value, we find that Audubon, whose energy in exploration no ornithologist has ever surpassed, was the first naturalist beholding Bird Rock to leave us a description of its wonders. It was during his cruise to Labrador in the schooner Ripley that he wrote in his journal, under date of June 14, 1833, the following graphic account of the day’s experiences:
81. North side of the Rock, west of the crane.
“About ten a speck rose on the horizon, which I was told was the Rock. We sailed well, the breeze increased fast, and we neared this object apace. At eleven I could distinguish its top plainly from the deck, and thought it covered with snow to the depth of several feet; this appearance existed on every portion of the flat, projecting shelves. Godwin said, with the coolness of a man who had visited this Rock for ten successive seasons, that what we saw was not snow, but Gannets. I rubbed my eyes, took my spyglass, and in an instant the strangest picture stood before me. They were birds we saw—a mass of birds of such a size as I never before cast my eyes on. The whole of my party stood astounded and amazed, and all came to the conclusion that such a sight was of itself sufficient to invite any one to come across the gulf to view it at this season. The nearer we approached the greater our surprise at the enormous number of these birds, all calmly seated on their eggs or newly hatched brood, their heads all turned to windward and toward us. The air above for a hundred yards, and for some distance around the whole Rock, was filled with Gannets on the wing, which, from our position, made it appear as if a heavy fall of snow was directly above us.” (Audubon and his Journals, i, p. 360.)
From his pilot, Godwin, Audubon secured some information concerning the Gannets that then nested on the top of the Rock. He writes: “The whole surface is perfectly covered with nests, placed about two feet apart, in such regular order that you may look through the lines as you would look through those of a planted patch of sweet potatoes or cabbages. The fishermen who kill these birds to get their flesh for codfish bait ascend in parties of six or eight, armed with clubs; sometimes, indeed, the party comprises the crews of several vessels. As they reach the top, the birds, alarmed, rise with a noise like thunder, and fly off in such a hurried, fearful confusion as to throw each other down, often falling on each other until there is a bank of them many feet high. The men strike them down and kill them until fatigued or satisfied. Five hundred and forty have been thus murdered in one hour by six men. The birds are skinned with little care, and the flesh cut off in chunks; it will keep fresh about a fortnight. So great is the destruction of these birds annually that their flesh supplies the bait for upward of forty fishing boats which lie close to Bryon Island, each summer.”
This slaughter was evidently attended by some danger, for not only did the sitting birds bite viciously, but old fishermen in the Magdalens state that if the invader of the Gannets’ domain on the summit of the Rock should have happened to be caught in a rush of stampeded birds, he could with difficulty have avoided being carried off the edge of the cliff.
In concluding his description of the Rock, Audubon says: “No man who has not seen what we have this day can form the least idea of the impression the sight made on our minds.” One need not be a naturalist, therefore, to realize the depth of his disappointment when the pilot told him that the wind was too high to permit them to land on the Rock. However, they did not leave without at least making an attempt. A boat was launched, manned by the pilot, two sailors, Audubon’s son John, and Tom Lincoln, for whom Lincoln’s Finch, discovered subsequently in Labrador, was named; but after an hour’s absence they returned without having made a landing, and the increasing force of the wind compelled them to continue their voyage to the northward.
Apparently the first naturalist to set foot on Bird Rock was Dr. Henry Bryant, of Boston, who landed there June 23, 1860. This was before the days of the lighthouse, and Dr. Bryant reached the top of the Rock only after a climb which he characterizes as both “difficult and dangerous.” In addition to the Gannets, which he found resting on the ledges on the face of the Rock, he found these birds nesting over the entire northerly half of the summit, and after measuring the surface occupied by them, he estimated that this one colony alone contained no less than one hundred thousand birds, while the number living on the sides of the Rock and Little Bird he placed at fifty thousand.
The position of the Rock, at the gateway to Canadian ports, makes it particularly dangerous to vessels plying in these waters, and in 1869 a lighthouse was erected on its summit. While constructing the light keeper’s dwelling and storehouses, the Government built two cranes—one on the northerly, the other on the southerly side of the Rock—for use in hoisting supplies. There are also now three other places where by means of ladders and ropes one may ascend. The top of the Rock was thus made more accessible, and the birds were consequently less protected from the attacks of fishermen. It is said, also, that the light keepers did not appreciate the companionship of the Gannets, and made special efforts to drive the birds from the nesting site which they so long had held undisturbed.
82. A corner of the Rock.
Hence, when Mr. C. J. Maynard visited the Rock in 1872, he found that the colony of Gannets on its summit contained only five thousand birds, which, nine years later, Mr. William Brewster reports had decreased to fifty pairs. Mr. Brewster also noted a fresh cause for the destruction of the eggs of the birds nesting on the sides of the Rock, in the shape of a cannon which had been introduced shortly before his visit. He writes: “At each discharge the frightened Murres fly from the Rock in clouds, nearly every sitting bird taking its egg into the air between its thighs and dropping it after flying a few yards. This was repeatedly observed during our visit, and more than once a perfect shower of eggs fell into the water about our boat.” While the birds have become comparatively accustomed to the report of the guncotton bomb, which has succeeded the cannon, large numbers still leave the Rock each time a bomb is exploded, so that it continues to be a means of destroying not only eggs but young birds, which are carried off the narrow ledges by the precipitous flight of their parents.
Since that date (1881) Cory, Lucas, Palmer, Bishop, and doubtless others, have visited Bird Rock, but with the entire disappearance of the Gannets from its summit no attempt has been made to estimate the further decrease in the number of its feathered inhabitants.
In spite of the great diminution which this outline of its history shows to have occurred in Bird Rock’s population, the casual observer of to-day will believe with difficulty that it could ever have been more densely inhabited. It is still one of the ornithological wonders of our Atlantic coast, and, comparatively speaking, as well worth visiting as in the time of Audubon.
Writing now in the light of experience, I anticipate a return to Bird Rock with even more enthusiasm than I felt when after the discouraging uncertainties of delay we boarded the Sea Gem on the afternoon of July 23d, and with a fair wind set sail for Bryon, where we were to anchor for the night.
What a stanch, powerful vessel the little schooner seemed when compared with the fishing boats in which we had at first prepared to make the voyage! Investigation below, however, did not seem to offer prospects of undisturbed repose, and reaching Bryon late in the afternoon we decided to go ashore and apply to the island’s owner for a night’s lodging. Bryon Island, with its several thousand acres of stunted spruce and balsam forests, its rolling pasture lands and grazing cows and sheep, its precipitous red sandstone cliffs rising to a height of two hundred feet from the sea and furnishing a home for a few Murres and Puffins, is the property of one man, who purchased it from the Government for a nominal sum. A lobster cannery furnishes employment for twoscore or more itinerant fishermen and laborers, who after the lobstering season ends in July remain for the mackerel fishing. When they have departed the population of Bryon is reduced to about half a dozen families, over whom the owner reigns supreme.
We landed at the cannery and wended our way over a path through the stunted forests, which at the end of a mile or more led us to the monarch’s home—a small frame house adjoining large barns.
The ruler of Bryon proved to be absent in the Magdalens, but his wife made us both welcome and comfortable. We recall with pleasure the night passed beneath her roof, and the magnificent view of the setting sun from Bryon’s red cliffs.
We awoke in the clouds, gulf clouds, which so often in swift-spreading banks envelop both sea and land in this region. It was ten o’clock before the sun could force its way through them, and when we returned to the Sea Gem we found the captain impatient at our tardiness. We explained that of course we did not suppose that he would care to start in so dense a fog, but he laughed at us. “Fog!” What had fog to do with sailing when the wind was favorable? Later he gave us an exhibition of seamanship in a fog which deeply engraved the name of Captain Taker on our memories.
However, the wind still held from the right quarter not only for the run to the Rock, but for a landing on its one bit of beach, and we quickly hoisted sail for this last stage of a long journey.
For two hours we watched the Rock grow slowly larger, then its outlines more rapidly assumed individuality, the lighthouse and other buildings on its summit took definite form, its rocky ledges were seen to be lined with rows of white Gannets, and Bird Rock became for us a reality. The storm of circling birds which Audubon described is not to be seen to-day, but enough are left to quickly exhaust our stock of adjectives.
A British flag was displayed from the tall staff near the lighthouse. If it had been marked with stars and bars it would have looked less like a signal set as a greeting from the island’s keeper to his unknown guests.
A figure on the rock now vigorously motioned us toward its only landing place, and heaving to the schooner we dropped a dory overboard and sent Captain Taker ashore as our emissary to treat with the representative of the Canadian Government, and explain to him that through the courtesy of his chief, the Hon. J. U. Gregory, we were empowered to invade the territory under his control. At the end of half an hour a large dory, manned by two oarsmen, appeared from behind the Rock and headed for the schooner. In the stern was Captain Taker, in the bow a stranger whose face was eloquent with an unspoken welcome. This was Keeper Captain Peter Bourque. If we had been at the head of the Lighthouse Board itself, he could not have received us more cordially. What a hunger he had for news! Nearly two months had elapsed since he had heard from the world—months rich with the history of the defeat of Cervera and surrender of Santiago.
83. The landing at the base of the Rock, showing crate.
84. The landing on top of the Rock, showing crane. The Kittiwakes at the bottom of the picture are shown in No. 85.
Our outfit was speedily placed in the dory, and with the Rock and its birds now looming high above us, we pulled for the bit of rock-fringed beach which constitutes the only available landing place. It was already evident that the island offered endless opportunities to the bird photographer, and as each stroke of the oars brought us nearer I felt a sense of exultation, such perhaps as a miner experiences when he discovers that his claim promises an assured fortune. The boat was beached with a rush, and landing at the base of the cliff,[83] which rose like a wall somewhat over one hundred feet above us one could realize the danger attending an attempt to land here in anything but the calmest weather. We were now introduced to the car or basket in which we were to make actually the final stage of our journey. It seemed a frail, cratelike affair of light strips of wood, and measured about two and a half feet square and three feet high. After our cameras, plates, gun, ammunition, etc., had been snugly stowed, we obeyed the direction to enter the crate and take seats on bits of board placed across opposite corners. The end of the long, dangling rope was attached, in response to Captain Bourque’s roaring “Hoist away!” a faint reply came from the tiny figure which in a sickening way had been leaning over the edge of the rock above, watching our proceedings, and a moment later the rope tightened, strained, and we were clear of the ground and slowly rising. A long experience in elevators had made me anticipate this part of the Bird Rock journey without concern, but the instant after the ascent began I discovered that we were not only going up but around as well, and the twisting motion was so novel, so unlike anything to which I had previously been accustomed, that I confess to a feeling of surprise, to say the least. The sudden jars, as the rope in winding slipped off the preceding coil and dropped suddenly, perhaps an inch, gave us a sufficiently clear idea of the feelings which would attend the beginning of a fall, and it was with a decided sense of having had a narrow escape that, on being hoisted slightly above the level of the summit of the Rock, we saw the arm of the crane[84] pulled inward, bringing the crate over the land, to which we were gently lowered.
The twenty years which have elapsed since Cory visited the Rock have reduced the time required for the ascent from twenty-seven to six minutes. The world moves, therefore, even at Bird Rock.
To a naturalist this slow passage through the air, about six feet from ledge after ledge, crevice above crevice, filled with Kittiwakes,[85] Murres, and Razorbills, with great white banks of snowy Gannets on either side, possesses an almost stupefying fascination. The birds were so abundant and showed such entire lack of fear, I seemed to have reached, if not the heart, at least one of the most important centers of the bird world.
Alighting from the crate, we were greeted by Mr. Bourque’s two assistants and his daughter, a girl of sixteen, who, with a third assistant, now absent on leave, completed the population of the island. There should be added, however, one cow—an important member of the Rock colony, who had reached her elevated position in life by means of the same apparatus with which we had just gratefully parted company. Numerous buildings,[86] which we had barely noticed from the sea, were found to form a miniature village on the grassy, nearly level summit of the Rock, giving to the scene an atmosphere of comfort and homeliness which strongly emphasized one’s sense of isolation.
85. Kittiwakes and young on nests. From the crate.
86. The lighthouse, keeper’s dwelling, and other buildings.
The favorable light prevailing at the time of our arrival was far too valuable to be used for anything but photography. No sooner, therefore, was our luggage removed from the crate than, without waiting to inspect our quarters, I made ready the cameras and plate-holders. The latter, numbering twenty-one, furnished forty-two glass plates. I wished for twice that number before the day ended. Going to the western end of the Rock, now brightly illumined by the afternoon sun, I found that the jutting, shaly ledges permitted one to descend easily, and in a moment I was in the midst of groups1 of Puffins, Razorbills, Brünnich’s and Common Murres, who apparently regarded me with as much surprise and interest as I did them, and exhibited an astonishing confidence in mankind. In fact, I was at times vigorously scolded by some Murre parent, who waddled toward me, bobbing her head, and uttering a series of protesting murres in a tone so like that of a bass-voiced man, I half expected a larger biped to appear.
87. Razorbilled Auks and “Ringed” Murre. × 3.
The Razorbills were fully as tame, sometimes leaving their crevices in the cliff and, with a hoarse croak, almost flying in my face, while the Puffins exhibited a spirit of combined indifference and independence, which plainly said, “This Rock is ours.”
I sat down on a convenient ledge, and as the birds gathered about me in rows and groups on the border of the cliff, its ledges and projections, I seemed almost to be on speaking terms with them. So unusual and pleasing was this experience of having birds admit me at once to the inner circles of their society that I felt as though I had indeed been initiated into their ranks; and my enjoyment of the strange scene was heightened tenfold by the knowledge that I could satisfactorily record it. So I prepared the twin-lens—a camera exactly adapted to my present needs—and at a distance of twenty feet or thereabouts loaded and fired as many times as I pleased, with the birds none the wiser, and offering me each moment some new picture differing in composition from the last. Here was a triumph for the bird photographer. Who so nearly could have done justice to the subject? The taxidermist? One shot would have broken the spell? The artist? Whose pencil could compete with the lens in the convincing realism of its impression?
But as yet I had seen only a fragment of the Rock. Climbing, therefore, from ledge to ledge, I reached a corner where an abrupt turn exposed a great expanse of perpendicular wall so inaccessible to man that it had become a favorite nesting site for the birds.[82] Here were gathered Gannets, Murres, Razorbills, and Kittiwakes, distributed singly or in rows, according to the nature of the shelves or ledges on which they were nesting, the Gannets taking the widest, the Murres and Kittiwakes the narrowest ledges, while the Razorbills sought the more sheltered crevices.
What noise and seeming confusion were here! A never-ceasing chorus in which the loud, grating gor-r-r-rok, gor-r-rrok of the Gannets predominated, while the singularly human call of the Murres and the hoarse note of the Razorbills formed an accompaniment. Occasionally the Kittiwakes found cause for excitement, and hundreds of birds swooped downward from their nests and circled about, calling their rapidly uttered, distinctly enunciated kít-ti-wake, kít-ti-wake.
88. Puffins. × 2.
In addition to the great number of birds resting or nesting on the Rock, an endless procession of Gannets, Puffins, and Razorbills were flying around, but never over it. Unconsciously one expected a pause in this whirling throng, but although its numbers fluctuated, birds were always passing. The exposure of my last plate recalled me to a sense of other duties, and when I had returned to the little group of buildings with their inhabitants, I seemed to have been in another sphere.
My object in visiting Bird Rock was not only to secure pictures of its bird life, but a certain number of birds for the American Museum of Natural History, where it is proposed to represent a portion of the Rock with its tenants. During my absence in the world of birds my good assistant had turned one of the supply houses into a laboratory, and was already at work preparing specimens with which the active Shelbourne and attentive keepers had plentifully supplied her.
A gun was necessary only in securing Gannets and Kittiwakes, the Murres and Razorbills being caught in a dip-net by the keepers; one of whom, having a rope about his waist which was held by his associate, advanced to the edge of the cliff or “cape,” as it is termed locally, and looked cautiously over in quest of the birds resting on the ledges immediately below. Having learned their position the net was thrust quickly downward, and the birds, in attempting to escape, often flew directly into it and became entangled in its meshes. Puffins were captured on their nests in crevices in the face of the Rock or in the holes they had burrowed in the earth on the top. The latter were sometimes shared with Leach’s Petrel, who also occupied small burrows of their own.
The schooner had dropped anchor near the Rock, but the wind increasing in strength, Captain Taker set sail for the lee of Bryon, and at midnight, when we concluded our day’s work, there was a promise of a stormy morrow, which daylight fulfilled. The wind drove the waves to the rock-set base of our islet with terrific force, making landing or departure out of the question. We had come just in time. The light prohibited successful photography, and the day was devoted to collecting and preserving specimens and exploring the Rock.
89. Murre’s egg.
We had arrived in the height of the nesting season, all of the seven species breeding on the Rock having eggs and young in various stages of development. It was evident, however, that the number of eggs and young was small as compared with the number of adults, a condition which was explained by Captain Bourque’s statement, that he thought about five thousand eggs had been taken from the Rock by fishermen that year. These were the eggs of Murres and Razorbills, the former being the most abundant birds on the Rock. Both the Common and Brünnich’s Murre were present, but I am unable to say which was the more numerous. There were also a few of the singular, so-called “Ringed” Murres,[87] a bird whose standing is in doubt, some ornithologists regarding it as a distinct species, others as an individual variety.
Both species of Murre laid their single peculiarly marked eggs on the bare shelves or ledges in the most exposed situations;[89] and seeing them now for the first time in Nature, I was quite willing to accept the theory which has been advanced to account for their markedly toplike or pearlike shape. A round or elliptical egg, laid in the situations often chosen by the Murres, would, when moved by the wind or incubating bird, readily roll from its precarious position, but the pointed egg of the Murre when disturbed describes a circle about its own end. Thus, like a diplomat, it seemingly yields to superior force while retaining its original position. The eggs vary in color from greenish blue to buff, and are strikingly scrawled and blotched with shades of chocolate. No two are alike, a fact which it is supposed may aid the parent Murre in distinguishing her own egg among the dozens with which it may be placed.
90. Young Murres and egg.
The few eggs seen were doubtless laid by birds which had been robbed earlier in the season, but young were found in every stage, from the newly hatched downy chick,[90] who sat on his narrow ledge vigorously screeching for food, to others half grown and with the natal down almost entirely replaced by the first winter plumage. The parents were still in attendance on the oldest birds, and no young were seen in the water.
91. Kittiwakes and young on nest. From the crate. × 2. An enlarged detail of No. 85.
Razorbills, perhaps because the Rock contained comparatively few of the sheltered nooks they require for nesting sites, were less abundant than Murres. Their downy young were much lighter in color than the young of the Murres, and their high squealing whistle could easily be distinguished from the screech of the young Murres. Of two specimens which had nearly completed the acquisition of their winter plumage, one had the white line from the eye to the bill so characteristic of the adult fully developed, while in the other it was wholly wanting—a variability in marking which suggests that the white stripe of the Ringed Murre is a similar individual peculiarity.
Next to the Murres the Kittiwakes are probably the most numerous birds on the Rock. Doubtless for the reason that they select the less accessible ledges where their eggs can not be so readily taken, their young were more advanced than those of any other of the birds breeding here. Their nests, rather bulky structures of seaweed, which often projected well over the edge of the ledge on which they were built, contained only young with their parents, one or two birds constituting a brood.[91]
92. Entrance to Puffin’s burrow.
Kittiwakes were never observed perching on the upper ledges or rim of the Rock in the situations commonly selected by Murres, Razorbills, and Puffins. The last-named species, in fact, was never seen resting far from the top of the Rock, and its nests were placed in burrows excavated on the summit of the Rock, at the west end. Occasionally advantage was taken of an opening beneath a ledge, but generally the bird excavated a hole,[92] about four inches in diameter and three or four feet in length, at the end of which we found the nest of grasses and feathers, with its single elliptical white egg[93] and sitting bird, or a sooty, down-covered nestling.[94]
93. Puffin’s nest and egg at the end of excavated burrow.
Woe to the unsuspecting person who thrusts his hand into the jaw, one might say, of an incubating Puffin. Nature has not only provided the bird with an uncommonly powerful and efficient pair of mandibles, but also with a disposition which prompts it to use them to the best advantage. Never have I seen anything in the shape of a bird so diabolically vicious as a Puffin. An individual which we captured alive and attempted to study in our workroom, proved altogether too fierce a creature to have about, and its hoarse voice—half grunt, half groan—added to its unattractiveness.
94. Young Puffin on nest at the end of burrow.
In Nature, however, their trim appearance was very pleasing; Paroquets, the French-Canadians call them, and one has only to see the bird in life to appreciate the applicability of the name. It is not alone their looks but also their actions which suggest the Parrot. Unlike the Murres and Razorbills, they do not rest on the whole foot, but stand quite erect on the toes alone, and run about with the characteristic pattering steps of Parrots. When the wind blew fresh from the sea they often faced it, hovering a foot or two above the rocks on outstretched, motionless wings, and retaining for several seconds this perfect balance between gravity and air pressure.
It is quite possible that I may have wholly misjudged the Puffin’s character, and that when unmolested their nature is peaceable in extreme. At any rate, they seem to be not only on excellent terms with their own kind, but with the very distantly related Leach’s Petrels, with which they sometimes shared their underground homes, one bird’s nest being at the end of the burrow, the other about half way to the entrance. The Petrels also occupied burrows of their own, which, judging from the actions of the birds found in them, they had excavated by the aid of their toes.[95]
95. Leach’s Petrel on nest at end of excavated burrow.
The Petrel’s nests were composed of fine grasses and a few feathers, and one nest contained two bits of white birch bark, the presence of which raised the question as to whether these gleaners of the sea do not gather suitable nesting material when they find it floating on the surface of the water. Two of the eight or ten Petrels’ nests examined contained a single white egg; one egg constituting a full set with this species, as with all the other rock-nesting birds, except the Kittiwake. The remaining nests were each occupied by a newly hatched young bird—a gray ball of down, so unlike anything in feathers I had ever seen that, if it had not been for their tiny, young chickenlike peep, I should have been inclined to pass it by as a wad of gray cotton.[96] Never more than one of the parent birds, either the male or female, was found on the nest, nor was a single Petrel seen about the Rock during the day.
96. Young Leach’s Petrel removed from burrow with nesting material.
The Puffins and Petrels are now the only birds nesting on the summit of the Rock, not a single descendant of the one hundred thousand Gannets which, according to Bryant, occupied the top of the Rock in 1860 now being found there. To-day this species nests only on the less accessible border ledges on the face of the Rock, where they are grouped in colonies. Most of them were incubating, but several were brooding their young, which ranged in size from the naked, black-skinned, newly hatched chick to those that had acquired the white, swan’s-downlike first plumage.[97]
With the exception of two white, black-spotted birds, all the Gannets seen, both on Bird Rock and Bonaventure, were in the adult white plumage, and if, as has been stated, this plumage is not gained until the bird is two years old, the question arises, What becomes of the immature birds during the nesting season?
97. Young Gannet.
An estimate of the number of individuals representing the seven species just mentioned as nesting on the Rock, is perhaps not warranted by my brief experience, nor should I attempt to give one, did not my photographs permit me to count with a fair degree of accuracy the number of birds in view on that part of the Rock shown in these pictures. Time was lacking to make, from a boat, a series of photographs of the Rock which would include all its bird-inhabited portions, and the appended estimates are based on the results of a count of the birds in photographs of about one half the occupied area. Murres, Razorbills, and Puffins can not be distinguished in these pictures and are therefore grouped under one head, it being calculated that about from fifteen hundred to two thousand individuals of these species make the Rock their home. Of this number probably not more than one hundred are Puffins, while the Common and Brünnich’s Murres (Uria troile et U. lomvia) outnumber the Razorbills at least four to one.
98. Gannets. × 3. An enlarged detail of No. 99.
The Kittiwake population of the Rock probably numbers between six hundred and eight hundred birds; of Gannets, there are perhaps left only fifteen hundred of the more than one hundred thousand birds which Dr. Bryant writes of as living on the top of the Rock alone; and of Petrels, not more than fifty.
When on the Rock I should have said that it was tenanted by at least ten thousand birds, and I was not a little surprised to find that the evidence furnished by my photographic records gave a total of about four thousand birds. However, the sight of four thousand birds domiciled in one small islet is sufficiently impressive to increase the pulse beat of the most phlegmatic traveler; and even if this estimate be too large, the Rock’s merits as a bird resort are too substantial to be affected by any decrease in it which truth demands.
To return to an account of the day’s doings, the light, as has been said, was unfavorable for photography, and the time was devoted to collecting and preparing specimens and making a hurried survey of the bird rookeries on the Rock, with results briefly set forth above; but late in the afternoon the sun gave indications of its whereabouts behind the clouds, and I immediately substituted the camera for the scalpel, and had Keeper Bourque lower me in the crate in order that I might secure photographs of the birds observed on our ascent.
Neither the stability of the crate nor its constant turning were conditions which a photographer would choose, and, without the twin-lens it would have been impossible to secure pictures of the Kittiwakes[85] and Murres, who in a surprised but unalarmed manner regarded me from their nests on the Rock, in some instances at a distance of not more than six feet.
At ten o’clock at night I visited the west end of the Rock to see and hear the Petrels that nest there. The casual visitor to Bird Rock would be quite unaware of the presence of these birds; indeed, one might live there for years without knowing that Petrels made it their home. As far as the Rock is concerned, the birds are strictly nocturnal; but as usually only one bird—either male or female—is found on the nest, it is supposed that its mate is at sea feeding. If this supposition be true, I am at a loss to account for the entire absence of the birds during the daytime. Why should they not return to their nests before nightfall? And if, as stated, the sea bird takes the place of the nest bird, does the latter always feed at night and the former by day, or do they sometimes change about, thus making the same individual both nocturnal and diurnal in habit?
However this may be, I had no sooner reached the part of the Rock tenanted by the Petrels than I was given the most surprising evidence of their activity during the night. From the ground at my feet and on every side there issued the uncanny little song—if I may so call it—of birds doubtless sitting at the mouths of their burrows. It was not like the cry of a sea bird, but a distinctly enunciated call of eight notes, possessing a character wholly its own, and not to be compared to the notes of any bird I have ever heard, though at the time it impressed me as having a certain crowing quality. Such a call might be uttered by elves or brownies. Occasionally I saw a blur of wings as a bird passed between me and the lighthouse.
99. Gannets on nests.
Later, the fog, which had been scudding over us in wisps and ribbons, closed in, and through the medium of a guncotton bomb the Rock gave notice of its presence to the mariners who might be in the surrounding waters. Captain Taker heard the dull, booming voice as with disappointing promptness he came to take us from the Rock, and early in the morning we heard his fog horn from the gray bank below telling where the Sea Gem, as yet unseen, was anchored.
In the hope of better weather I deferred photographing the Gannets, the only accessible colony of which was on the north side of the Rock; but forced now to make the best of the existing conditions, I took the twin-lens, fastened one end of a rope about my waist, and gave the other end to Captain Bourque, in order that, unhampered by thought of fall, I might creep along the slippery ledges where the birds nested.[99]
The fog had lifted, but the day was gloomy, and only the white plumage of the birds and a wide-open lens yielded successful photographs.
It was my first visit to the big white birds, who, in spite of persecution, have as yet acquired but little fear of man, and as with hoarse croaks and a dashing of wings they pitched onto the narrow ledges near me, their size and boldness, in connection with my somewhat insecure footing, aroused in me a feeling which I had not experienced when surrounded by the smaller Murres, Auks, and Puffins. The main nesting ledge was out of reach below, but small groups of birds were nearer, and these I photographed at a distance of about ten feet.[100]
These Gannets are magnificent birds, and when on the wing exhibit a combination of power and grace excelled by no other bird I have seen. They are most impressive when diving, as with half-closed wings, like great spearheads, they descend from a height of about forty feet with a force and speed that takes them wholly out of sight, and splashes the water ten feet or more into the air. Cory graphically compares the sight of a distant flock of Gannets diving at a school of fish, to a continuous stream of beans poured from a pail.
100. Gannet on nest. Two nests in foreground.
Captain Bourque tells me that Gannets are no longer used for bait by the codfishers; but when one realizes that only two colonies of these grand birds, comprising a few thousand individuals, are all that are left of the species in this hemisphere, one could wish for these survivors something more than negative protection.
In the afternoon the weather gave promise of clearing, and entering the crate we were swung out over the edge of the Rock on the first stage of our homeward journey. The collections and outfit were placed aboard the schooner, while in a dory we attempted to visit Little Bird; but before we had rowed a quarter of a mile the fog crept back, Great Bird slowly disappeared from view and became only a periodic boom in the gray wall, and we returned to the schooner without delay.
The sail to Bryon, where we passed the night, apparently demonstrated Captain Taker’s possession of the sense of direction. In spite of a head wind, violent squalls, and a strong tide, he made his way through the fog with perfect assurance and dropped anchor at a particular lobster buoy, visible less than fifty yards from the schooner, but which in effect he appeared to have seen before we left the Rock. It was a remarkable bit of seamanship.
In Bird Rock the Canadian Government possesses an object of surpassing interest, one which, south of Greenland, is unique in eastern North America. It is the obvious duty of the proper authorities to preserve it, and the ease with which this can be done makes further neglect inexcusable. The appointment of the light keeper as a game warden is the only step required to make Bird Rock a safe retreat for sea fowl, until, in some future geologic age, it shall have yielded to the relentless attack of the waters.