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.
52. Nesting site, nest, and three eggs of Common Tern. A nearer view of nest with sitting bird is shown in Nos. 63 and 64.
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.
53. Tern hovering above nest.
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.
54. Nest and eggs of Tern on upland.
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.
55. Tern’s nest and eggs in drift débris.
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.
56. Young Tern hiding on rocky beach.
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.
57. Young Tern hiding in the grass.
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.
58. Tern alighting on nest. Same nest as Nos. 60–62.
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.
59. Tern on hillside nest.
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.
60. Tern’s nest and hatching eggs in seaweed.
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.
61. Tern about to feed young. Same nest as No. 60.
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.
62. Tern brooding young. Same nest as No. [60].
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]
63. Tern on nest. Site shown in No. 52.
64. Tern on nest. Site shown in No. 52.
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.
65. Tern on upland nest.
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).
66. Young Terns; first stage, about four days old.
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.
67. Young Tern, about a week old.
68. Young Tern; third stage, second plumage appearing.
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.
69. Young Tern, fourth stage.
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!
70. Young Tern, stage before flight.
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.