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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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}
[Illustration: 63. Tern on nest. Site shown in No. 52.]
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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).
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 67. Young Tern, about a week old.]
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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!
[Illustration: 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.