On the following day we took the train for the head of Deer Lake, some thirty miles away. After leaving the train we pulled our boat across the lake and pitched our tent on an island at the mouth of the Upper Humber River. The day was beautiful, and the sun hot enough that the eggs of the mosquito, deposited at dawn, were wigglers by noon. All day long the black flies made our lives miserable, and as night approached the “nippers” took their place. Our tent was brand-new and erected with the most painstaking care, but we were unable to keep them out. We made ourselves busy before retiring for the evening by killing everything in sight, black flies, mosquitoes, and spiders, and then we tucked ourselves away on the balsam fir bed for a night’s rest. But no sooner were we fixed nicely than the music began, and they seemed to come from every direction, so the fight was renewed again and again until we had exhausted ourselves and our “dope,” and fell asleep from sheer weariness. Their favorite point of attack seemed to be behind the ears, and the singing still continued, adding considerably to the torment. In the morning our brand-new tent looked like a slaughter house, all blotched over with red, each mark indicating the death of one of the vicious little pests.
Spotted Sandpiper’s Nest
The weather turned cold,—and how glad we were to find relief! After breakfast we started out in search of anything of interest, and while walking down the beach we noticed many little fine tracks on the sand; three toes in front cleft to the base indicated immediately that the maker belonged to the order of waders (Limicolæ), and was about the size of the little spotted sandpiper (Actitis macularia), which builds its nest just along the edge of sparsely-clustered bushes. Taking the trail, we followed, scanning carefully every likely place, and when we were within a few feet of her the little hen bird left in great excitement, twittering and flapping her wings as she fluttered along the ground, evidently trying to feign a crippled condition to draw our attention from the nest. This was built on the sand; just a very shallow hole and a few small sticks and pieces of bark; the four little cream-colored eggs with their liver-colored spots rested in the center of the nest, with a bunch of green leaves for the background.
Merganser’s Nest
Going a little farther down the beach we found the footprints of another bird on the sands. The trail was scarcely deeper, but quite different. At first sight we recognized the track as made by a member of the order of swimmers (Lamellirostres), for the full palmated feet left their plain imprint, with the three toes pressed a little deeper in the sand than was the web, and with the lobate toe leaving its delicate touch. We followed the trail to a large white birch which was partly undermined by the spring freshet, leaving its mass of roots hanging down to the sand. Getting down on my knees and looking closely I saw a few feathers, and by a long and careful straining of the eye could make out the mother bird on the nest. She was so well concealed it was absolutely impossible to get a photograph of her in occupation of the nest, so we proceeded to pull some of the roots away and even touched her in doing so; still she did not move from her position; but before we got the picture she left the nest with a “quack, quack,” her neck extended and wings beating the sand. The nest belonged to a family of red-breasted mergansers (Merganser serrator), and contained seven plain cream-colored eggs (size 2.50” × 1.70”); it was built of a few small sticks and lined with down from the breast of the duck. We visited the nest several times afterwards, but believe it was abandoned. At the upper end of the island we pitched our tent, possibly half a mile from the nest, intending to make a midnight visit for the purpose of getting a flash-light picture if possible. Before evening the birds could be seen a long way off taking in the situation from the distance, but as the evening approached they drew nearer and nearer and then darkness enshrouded the landscape. Although we could not see their flight over our tent, we could frequently hear the whirr of their wings long into the night as they passed up and down, frightened and unable to settle peacefully under the roots of the old birch. The instinct for the protection of her young is very strongly developed in the merganser, and she will resort to every possible ruse to conceal them, coaxing them into good cover, and, when once they are concealed, leading you away in another direction.