But for ducks and the duck hunter the lighthouse family would die of inanition. With the cold weather comes the ducks, and they continue to come till the warmer blasts of spring drive them to the northward. Montauk Point is a favorite haunt for this sort of wild fowl. It is a good feeding ground, is isolated, and there is nearly always a weather shore for the flocks to gather under. But year by year the point is being more and more frequented by sportsmen, and the reports of their successes increase the applicants for lodgings at the light. Some 20 gunners were out there last week with the most improved paraphernalia for the sport, and did telling work. Flight shooting is the favorite method of taking them. The light stands very near the end of the point, about a sixteenth of a mile to the west, and all migratory birds in passing south seem to have it down in their log-book that they must not only sight this structure, but must also fly over it as nearly as possible. Hence the variety and extent of the flocks which are continually passing is a matter of interest and wonder to a student of natural history as well as to the sportsman. Coots, whistlers, soft bills, old squaws, black ducks, cranes, belated wild geese, and, in fact, all sorts of northern birds make up this long and strange procession, and the air is frequently so densely packed with them as to be actually darkened, while the keen, whistling music of their whizzing wings makes a melody that comparatively few landsmen ever hear. Millions of the birds never hesitate at this point in their flight, although thousands of them do. These latter make the neighboring waters their home for the rest of the winter. Great flocks of ducks are continually sailing about the rugged shores, and the frozen cranberry marshes of Fort Pond Bay, lying to the westward, are their favorite feeding-grounds. The birds are always as fat as butter when making their flight, and their piquant, spicy flavor leads to their being barbecued by the wholesale at the seat of shooting operations. One of the gunner's cabins has nailed up in it the heads of 345 ducks that have been roasted on the Point this winter.
Early morning is the favorite time for shooting. At daybreak the flights are heavy, and from that time until seven o'clock in the morning they increase until it seems as though all the flocks which had spent the night in the caves and ponds on the Connecticut shore were on the wing and away for the south. By ten o'clock in the forenoon the flights grow rarer, and the rest of the day only stragglers come along. A good gunner can take five dozen of these birds easily in a morning's work, provided he can and will withstand the inclemency of the weather.
Keeper Clark never shoots ducks. Scarcely a morning has dawned for two months but that several of the poor birds have been picked up at the foot of the light house tower with the broken necks which have mutely told the story of death, reached by plunging headlong against the crystal walls of the dazzling lantern overhead the night before. There is a tendency with such migratory birds as are on the wing at night to fly very high. But the great, glaring, piercing, single eye of Montauk light seems to draw into it by dozens, as a loadstone pulls a magnet, its feathered victims, and they swerve in their course and make straight for it. As they flash nearer and nearer, the light, of course, grows brighter and brighter, and at length they dash into what appears a sea of fire, to be crushed lifeless by the heavy glass, and they fall to the ground below, ready to be plucked for the oven. Inside the lantern the thud made by these birds when they strike is readily felt. Although they are comparatively small, yet so great is their velocity that the impact creates a perceptible jar, and the lantern is disfigured with plashes of their blood. Upon stormy and foggy nights the destruction of birds is found to be greatest. When the weather is clear and fair many smaller birds, like robins, sparrows, doves, cuckoos, rail, snipe, etc., will circle about the light all night long, leaving only when the light is extinguished in the morning. Large cranes show themselves to be almost dangerous visitors. Recently one of these weighing 40 pounds struck the wrought iron guard railing about the lantern with such force as to bend the iron slats and to completely sever his long neck from his body.—N.Y. Times.
[THE GARDEN.]
THE HORNBEAMS.
The genus Carpinis is widely distributed throughout the temperate regions of the northern hemisphere. There are nine species known to botanists, most of them being middle-sized trees. In addition to those mentioned below, figures of which are herewith given, there are four species from Japan and one from the Himalayan region which do not yet seem to have found their way to this country; these five are therefore omitted. All are deciduous trees, and every one is thoroughly deserving of cultivation. The origin of the English name is quaintly explained by Gerard in his "Herbal" as follows: "The wood," he says, "in time, waxeth so hard, that the toughness and hardness of it may be rather compared to horn than unto wood, and therefore it was called horne-beam or hardbeam."
CARPINUS ORIENTALIS.
Carpinus Betulus,[1] the common hornbeam, as is the case with so many of our native or widely cultivated trees, exhibits considerable variation in habit, and also in foliage characters. Some of the more striking of these, those which have received names in nurseries, etc., and are propagated on account of their distinctive peculiarities, are described below. In a wild state C. Betulus occurs in Europe from Gothland southward, and extends also into West Asia. Although apparently an undoubted native in the southern counties of England, it appears to have no claim to be considered indigenous as far as the northern counties are concerned; it has also been planted wherever it occurs in Ireland.