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.
[Illustration: 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:
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 83. The landing at the base of the Rock, showing crate.]
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 85. Kittiwakes and young on nests. From the crate.]
[Illustration: 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 groups^1 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.
[Illustration: 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_.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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}
[Illustration: 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}
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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}
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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?
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
LIFE ON PELICAN ISLAND, WITH SOME SPECULATIONS ON THE ORIGIN OF BIRD
MIGRATION
The study of isolated colonies of birds, particularly of those situated
on islands, throws much light on several as yet little-understood
problems of bird migration.
With mainland birds of general distribution—the Robin, for example—the
individual is, except when nesting, lost in the species, and unless the
bird be peculiarly marked who can say whether the Robins which nest with
us one year are the same as those of the preceding season—where our
summer Robins winter, or our winter Robins summer? and who can tell
whether the first Robins to come in the spring are our summer resident
birds, or early migrants _en route_ to more northern nesting grounds?
In the case of certain island-inhabiting birds, however, some of these
questions may be answered with a fair degree of certainty. Thus Ipswich
Sparrows are known to nest only on Sable Island, off the Nova Scotia
coast, and we are warranted in believing that the same birds, fate
permitting, return to their sandy home year after year. Gannets (_Sula
bassana_) nest in the western hemisphere only on three islets in the
Gulf of St. Lawrence, and it is probable that the surviving individuals
return each year to their former breeding grounds. The Terns of Muskeget
and Penikese, forming the only two large colonies of these birds
remaining on the Atlantic coast, return to their island retreats every
spring; and actuated by this same love of home, the Brown Pelicans of
the Indian River region of eastern Florida annually repair to a certain
small island for the purpose of rearing their young. Many similar cases
might be cited in confirmation of the belief—supported also by isolated
observations on the mainland—that birds nest in the same locality
throughout their lives, and, on occasion, may even occupy their previous
season’s nest.
As regards the manner in which these island-inhabiting birds arrive at
the nesting grounds, as far as our recorded information goes, it seems
that without relation to latitude they appear each spring with
remarkable regularity, not straggling back a few at a time, but sending
on an advance guard, which usually remains only a short time and is
followed, a few days later, by apparently the entire colony.
Thus, Mackay writes of the Terns of Penikese: “In 1893 the Terns arrived
on May 10th, in the night, an advance guard of several hundred being
noted early the following morning at daylight; these all left before
noon of the 11th, and on the morning of the 12th, before daylight,
immense numbers had again arrived.... In 1896 the Terns commenced to
arrive during the night of May 9th; they were in evidence at daylight on
the 10th, and continued to arrive all day, and on the morning of the
11th the usual colony had taken possession of the island.” (Auk, xiv,
1897, p. 284.)
The migration of the island-nesting Terns in the tropics is apparently
no less regular. Scott states that the Noddy arrived in the Tortugas “on
April 20th in large numbers, but remained only two days; after
inspecting their breeding grounds, all departed to return about a week
later in greatly increased numbers, when breeding was almost at once
commenced.” (Auk, vii, 1890, p. 306.)
These insular colonies, however, not only throw much light on certain
existing phases of bird migration, but they also furnish us with a clew
to the origin of migration itself. This is especially true of those
species whose lives are passed in the tropics or subtropics, and which
we are accustomed to class as nonmigratory or as “permanent residents,”
but which are as regularly migratory, in the real meaning of the word,
as if they summered within the arctic circle and wintered south of the
equator.
Their movements are apparently in no way influenced by climate nor, at
this season, are they governed by the food supply, but prompted solely
by the annually recurring physiological change which fits both sexes for
reproduction, they repair to a certain islet, perhaps in the heart of
their range, with the one object of finding a suitable nesting site in
which their eggs may be laid and young reared in safety; and this object
accomplished, they desert the locality, where they may be unknown until
the following spring.
Divested, therefore, of the complications which ensue when in studying
the migration of birds the questions of food and climate must be
considered, we have here the problem reduced to its simplest terms; and
in the desire for seclusion during the breeding season which induces
birds to conceal their nests, if possible perhaps near by, but if
necessary after a journey of varying length undertaken especially for
the purpose, we have a good and sufficient cause for the origin of bird
migration.
An attempt to explain the present manifestation of the migratory
movement involves a study of the climatic changes to which our globe has
been subjected. No doubt many birds controlled by “heredity of habit”
make semiannual journeys which at one time were necessary, but under
existing circumstances are no longer required. Why, for example, should
the Bobolink winter south of the Amazon, while its ally, the Red-winged
Blackbird (_Agelaius phœniceus_), does not leave the eastern United
States? I have, however, no intention of writing an essay on bird
migration, and these thoughts are presented merely as preliminary to a
study of the life of Pelican Island, of a visit to which they are in
part the outcome.
Pelican Island is situated midway between the northern and southern
extremities of Indian River, near the eastern shore of a key which here
makes the river about three miles wide. It is triangular in shape and
contains about three acres of ground, on which grow a few black
mangroves, a cabbage palm or two, and great patches of grass; but at
least one fourth of its surface is bare ground.
On one of the islands of the near-by Narrows a few pairs of Brown
Pelicans are said to have nested, but, with this exception, Pelican
Island doubtless forms the nesting ground of all the Pelicans of Indian
River.
The question why the birds should select this particular island in
preference to the scores of others which, to the human eye, appear to be
equally well suited to their needs, is a difficult one to answer.
Perhaps no true selection is shown by the existing birds, which, as with
many other island-inhabiting species, may be the survivors of a once
more widely distributed species, who have been preserved by the
protection afforded by their island home. Such a colony might owe its
beginning to a pair of birds who were the true selectors of the site of
the future colony. The preserving influences of the situation were
potent from the beginning. The first brood reached maturity without
mishap, and in response to the instinct which prompts a bird to return
to the region of its birth, they, with successive generations, came back
and eventually established the prevailing conditions.
The attachment of these Pelicans for their home affords a remarkable
illustration of the power of habit. Ever since the Indian River region
has been subject to annual invasion by tourists, among whom the man with
the gun is conspicuous both by numbers and actions, the inhabitants of
Pelican Island have been wantonly and, on occasions, brutally
persecuted. Scarcely a day passes during February and March that one or
more boat loads of tourists, perhaps from the mainland or a passing
yacht, do not land on Pelican Island and thoughtlessly cause the death
of many young birds by driving them from the vicinity of their nests;
or, by frightening the brooding birds, they expose the newly hatched and
naked nestlings to the roasting rays of the sun. The harm caused by
these visitors, however, is not to be compared to that wrought by
so-called “sportsmen,” who, in defiance of every law of manhood, have
gone to Pelican Island and killed thousands of the birds simply because
they afforded a ready mark for their guns. They had not even the excuse
of a demand upon their skill, and must indeed have been very near the
level of the brute to have found pleasure in killing birds which the
merest novice with a gun would find it difficult to miss.
Perhaps even worse than this exhibition of pure savagery are the raids
of the self-styled “oölogists,” who, in the name of science—save the
mark!—have journeyed to Pelican Island with the express purpose of
taking every egg they could lay their insatiable fingers upon, afterward
to boast, in some journal devoted to reporting similar crimes, of the
hundreds they had collected in so many hours.
So persistently have the Pelicans been molested that at times they have
been foiled to desert their beloved island; but they have exhibited
their attachment for it by establishing themselves on the nearest
available islet, and on the first opportunity have returned to their
native land.
It was in March, 1898, that my best assistant and I boarded the little
sloop which was to take us to Pelican Island. Fortunately the birds were
now in possession of their ancestral domain, and, as we approached,
files of Pelicans were seen returning from fishing expeditions, platoons
were resting on the sandy points, some were bathing, others sailing in
broad circles high overhead. Soon we could hear the sound of many
voices—a medley of strange cries in an unknown tongue. Arriving and
departing on wings, the inhabitants of Pelican Island have little need
of deep water harbors, and we were obliged to anchor our sloop about a
hundred yards from the island and go ashore in a small boat.
[Illustration: 101. Pelicans on ground nests.]
No traveler ever entered the gates of a foreign city with greater
expectancy than I felt as I stepped from my boat on the muddy edge of
this City of the Pelicans. The old birds, without a word of protest,
deserted their homes, leaving their eggs and young at my mercy. But the
young were as abusive and threatening as their parents were silent and
unresisting. Some were on the ground, others in the bushy mangroves,
some were coming from the egg, others were learning to fly; but one and
all—in a chorus of croaks, barks, and screams, which rings in my ears
whenever I think of the experience—united in demanding that I leave the
town. If I approached too near, their cries were doubled in violence and
accompanied by vicious lunges with their bills, which were snapped
together with a pistol-like report.^{102} As I walked from tree to tree,
examining the noisy young birds that were climbing about the branches, I
seemed to be passing from cage to cage in a zoölogical garden; and as I
entered that part of the island where the nests were on the
ground,^{101} every bird that could walk left its home, and soon I was
driving a great flock of young Pelicans, all screaming at the tops of
their voices.
[Illustration: 102. Interviewing a group of young Pelicans.]
[Illustration: 103. Among the Pelicans.]
The old birds, in the meantime, were resting on the water. They might
have been unpleasant foes, but in their stately, dignified way they
accepted the situation, and waited in silence for us to retire. Then
they at once returned to their nests, and in a short time comparative
quiet was restored on the island.
This is a sketch of life in the Pelicans’ metropolis as one sees it
during a brief visit, and all the accounts of the island I have seen
were based on just such an experience. Consequently, I shall relate here
what was learned of the Pelicans and their home during four days passed
with them.
[Illustration: 104. Head and pouch of Brown Pelican. From a fresh
specimen.]
During no hour of the twenty-four did silence reign on Pelican Island;
if I went on deck at midnight, the notes of some complaining or
pugnacious young Pelicans, who in their sleep had come into too close
quarters, were sure to be heard. But the Pelicans’ day began at early
dawn, when I could distinguish the diagonal files of from two to a dozen
birds solemnly and silently starting out for the fishing grounds. One
might think that, like a boat’s crew, their strokes were controlled by a
coxswain, as in perfect unison they all flapped their broad wings for
about ten beats, and then spread them and sailed for as many seconds.
[Illustration: 105. Same as No. 104, seen from above, to show extent to
which sides of the lower bill are spread.]
Generally they headed for the ocean, there to follow the line of the
beach, sometimes high in the air, at others low over the curling surf,
as their progress was aided or retarded by the wind. How far they went I
can not say, but at a point ten miles north of Pelican Island many have
been seen still winging their way to the northward, doubtless to some
point where fish were abundant. Not once during the four days passed off
Pelican Island did I see a Pelican fishing over the surrounding waters.
It was not because they were lacking in fish, for they contained a
plentiful supply of food; and I could explain the unexpected abstinence
of the birds only on the supposition that the fish in the immediate
vicinity of the nesting ground were left for the early efforts of the
young birds before they were strong enough of wing to accompany their
parents to distant fishing grounds.
Brown Pelicans fish at a height of from twenty to thirty feet above the
water, not hovering, but flying slowly about, and without a moment’s
pause plunging on their prey with a force which would produce serious
results if the bird’s breast were not well padded with cellular tissue
between the skin and the flesh.
I observed that when the young birds struck at me the movement was
accompanied by a widening or bowing out of the sides of the lower
mandible, and it is doubtless the same muscular effort which turns the
pouch of the diving Pelican into a scoop net, as it were, with an
elliptical ring.^{105}
By sunrise most of the fishers appeared to have departed, and at this
time, whether because of the absence of so many of the adults or because
it was their breakfast hour, a swarm of Fish Crows came from the
mainland, apparently from both sides of the river, seeking what they
might devour in the way of eggs or young Pelicans, and departing after
several hours’ feasting.
About eight o’clock the fishers began to appear, coming, as they went,
in dignified lines, which broke up as they reached the island, each bird
going to its young. Then the outcry began, and the ensuing two hours
were the noisiest of the day.
Pelicans are so well able to supply the wants of their families that,
unlike smaller birds who bring to their ever-hungry broods only a
mouthful at a time, they are not forced to feed their young at short
intervals throughout the day, but the morning meal concluded, they do
not again have to provide for their nestlings until afternoon.
Immediately after breakfast, therefore, the parent birds went out into
the bay to bathe, and the flapping of their wings as they dashed the
water over themselves could be heard at a great distance. The bath
concluded, the birds gathered in rows on the sand bars jutting out from
the island, to vigorously preen their feathers, and doze in the sun; and
then, at irregular intervals, bird after bird, prompted apparently
purely by a love of exercise, or tempted by a possible resulting
exhilaration, mounted slowly into the air until they had attained a
great height, when, spreading their wings, they sailed majestically
about on broad circles for hours at a time. I was at first inclined to
connect this habit with the season of courtship, but observing several
birds of the year, who had but recently learned to fly, join their
elders, I came to the conclusion that the habit had no sexual
significance, and was indulged in solely because the birds enjoyed it.
In the afternoon the fishing parties again started out, and after the
resulting catch had been delivered to the clamoring young, the Pelican’s
day’s work was concluded, and he betook himself to his favorite roost
for the night. At dark a few Cormorants returned to the branches of a
dead tree, a single Frigate, after carefully and repeatedly
reconnoitering the situation, decided to take lodgings on a neighboring
stub, and a Pelican Island day was ended.
Whether, as in the case of the Terns and Gannets previously mentioned,
the Pelicans all return to their island on a certain day I can not say.
Probably, however, the short duration of their migratory journey, and
the fact that they come from both the north and the south, prevents them
from joining many other birds _en route_. However, apparently most of
the birds are warned at nearly the same time by a physiological change
that the season has come for them to return to their nesting grounds.
This is evidently in January, since in March a large number of the young
on the island were found almost ready to fly, while some, as has been
said, were already on the wing. There was, it is true, a great variation
in the development of the young found, and indeed the birds were still
laying, but I believe that the parents of these later broods had been
robbed of their eggs by tourists.
A careful count yielded a total of 845 nests, which had evidently been
built during the season, but only 251 of them were occupied. Most of the
vacant nests were on the ground, and had been deserted by their tenants,
who were now running about the island.
The 251 occupied nests contained eggs or young, as follows:
55 nests with 1 egg each;
63 „ „ 2 eggs „
23 „ „ 3 „ „
63 „ „ 1 young each;
46 „ „ 2 „ „
1 nest „ 3 „ „
Incubation was found to be well advanced in eggs which were alone in
their nest, showing either that one egg sometimes composes the set, or
that the other eggs of the set had been destroyed. The fact that one
nest was found with three young while twenty-three were found each
containing three eggs, would indicate a high mortality among the young
birds; and, indeed, no less than 94 dead young were counted. Most of
these, however, were birds which were old enough to leave the nest, and
death was doubtless due to the thoughtlessness of tourist visitors, who
chase the young about until they fall from exhaustion, or are driven too
far to find their way home.
Estimating the number of young birds which had left the 594 deserted
nests at 891—which would be an average of one and a half birds to the
nest—and adding two parent birds to each nest, we have 2,581 birds on
wing and on foot. But this number is to be increased by the 152 young
that were still in their nests, making the probable total population of
Pelican Island 2,736. This calculation, however, does not take into
account the eggs, from which almost hourly came new inhabitants of the
island; and it is with these eggs, or rather with the nest in which they
are placed, that we may begin a brief outline of the young Pelican’s
development.
The Pelican, although a low type of bird, is altricial, the young,
unlike the offspring of Gulls, Ducks, or Snipe, being hatched in a
helpless condition. The nest, therefore, is not only an incubator where
with heat from the parent bird the eggs are hatched, but it is a cradle
for the young. Consequently, Pelicans’ nests are unusually complicated
structures as compared with the dwellings of other birds equally low in
the evolutionary scale.
There was a very interesting and constant relation between the character
of the nest and its site, ground nests being composed largely or
entirely of long grasses, while those nests which were placed in the
trees were made of sticks and were lined with grasses, the nest proper
being erected on a platform of larger sticks laid from crotch to crotch
in the bushes in such a manner as to form a broad, firm foundation,
though, structurally, it was not a part of the nest, which could be
lifted without removing the platform.
[Illustration: 106. Newly hatched Pelicans. Ground nest.]
The difference between the nests of straw^{106} and those of
sticks^{107} were so marked that it seems probable their makers
regularly selected sites on the ground or in the trees respectively. Or,
assuming that the same individuals might build a stick nest in the
bushes one year and a straw nest on the ground the next, we have an
unusual variation in the character of the nest of the same species. In
the case of the Fish Hawks of Plumb Island the birds evinced an
appreciation of the protection afforded them by the owner of the island
by often placing their nests on the ground. Photographs of these nests,
however, made by Dr. C. S. Allen, show that the birds employed as much
material when nesting on the ground as when nesting in trees, the eggs
on the ground being surrounded by a useless mass of large sticks.
Certain of the birds, therefore, in response to new conditions, had
chosen new nesting sites, but had not as yet made corresponding changes
in the character of their nests.
When the nest is completed, as we have seen, from one to three eggs are
laid. The period of incubation is probably about four weeks, and a
careful listener may detect the presence of a hatching egg by the
choking bark which the young Pelican begins to utter as soon as he has
made an opening in the shell which holds him. When he has finally freed
himself and appears in the world, he is about as unattractive a bit of
bird life as can well be conceived.^{106} His dark, purple skin is
perfectly naked, he is blind, and when he is deprived of shade provided
by the brooding parent, he twists restlessly about in the nest, uttering
the same choking bark with which he first greeted the light.
Even at this early age he displays one of the strong characteristics of
the immature Pelican—a pugnacious disposition. Almost before his eyes
are open he bites at his nest mates for apparently no other reason than
that they come within reach of his bill. Soon his eyes open and within a
few days a wonderful change begins to take place in his
appearance.^{107} Little bunches of white down sprout all over his body,
and, growing rapidly, transform the ugly, purple-black nestling into a
snowy creature clad in softest down.
[Illustration: 107. Young Pelican in tree nest, showing first appearance
of white down.]
At the same time he has been growing much stronger; he is able to sit
up,^{108} his fighting abilities have greatly increased, and his voice,
after passing through a rasping _k-r-r-r-ing_ stage, has become a high,
piercing cry very closely resembling the scream of a child in extreme
pain. Young Pelicans uttering this call chiefly made up the chorus one
could hear all day and at intervals during the night on Pelican Island.
Pelicans of the same nest never seem to recover from the mutual enmity
with which they begin life. Quarreling is the normal condition of
affairs among the children of a Pelican family, and as they always
scream loudest when fighting, one cause for the continuous uproar is
evident. Another is the question of food, and just at this point I may
pause a moment to describe the manner in which the young Pelicans are
fed.
[Illustration: 108. Young Pelican, downy stage.]
So far as I know, Pelicans live wholly on fish, and the difference
between the fare of a young Pelican and that of its parent is in the
size of its finny food. I have seen fish twelve inches long in the
throat of an old Pelican, while the pouch of a very young bird contained
several fishes less than an inch in length.
It is plain to be seen, therefore, that when an old Pelican goes fishing
for his family he must keep constantly in mind the size of his offspring
and bring home little fish for little birds, larger fish for larger
ones.
Immediately after the parent returns from its fishing expedition, the
young cluster about it and the outcry begins. But the old one takes it
very patiently, sitting quite still until ready to open its creel, as it
were. Then he takes a stand if possible a little above the young, drops
his lower bill with its pouch, when at once the young thrust in their
heads to secure their morning’s catch. On one occasion I saw three
half-grown Pelicans with their heads and necks entirely out of sight in
the parent’s pouch, and all were prodding about so vigorously that one
would have thought it would be damaged past mending.
Having been fed, one might suppose that for a time peace would reign in
the Pelican household; but, after emptying their parent’s pouch, the
young immediately begin to squabble over the contents of their own. Here
is real cause for war, and they grasp each other by the bill and twist
and turn like athletes in a test of strength, seldom, however, with
serious results.
[Illustration: 109. Young Pelican, wing quills appearing.]
Returning to our sketch of the young Pelican’s growth: shortly after the
acquisition of the white down, the wing feathers begin to grow. As yet
the sprouting feathers are useless, but with them come strength and
courage to leave the nest and to clamber about in search of the foes who
perhaps have been mocking him for days, from their nest on an adjoining
limb. In spite of his broadly webbed toes, he manages to climb about in
the bushes with more or less ease;^{109} but in this climbing he is
greatly aided by his bill. Indeed, if it were not for the safety hook
made by the bill, head, and neck, many a young Pelican would have a
premature tumble. As it is, this hook is often the only thing that saves
him if he chances to lose his footing; catching by the bill and neck he
hangs for a moment, and then, like a gymnast, hauls himself up by the
aid of his toes.
[Illustration: 110. Young Pelicans, stage preceding flight.]
If the young Pelican’s home is on the ground, at this age he waddles
about playing by himself or fighting all comers. He dabbles in the
shallow water, filling his pouch with mud and water, bits of sticks,
shells, and weeds; then dropping the point of his bill downward so that
the mud and water ooze out, he carefully examines the remainder, piece
by piece, as if to see whether it is palatable. Even when alone he
sometimes loses his temper. I saw one evidently much annoyed by the
appearance of a displaced feather in his wing, and in a vain effort to
catch it he whirled about like a kitten chasing its own tail.
But the fast-growing wing plumes soon seem to be a source of
inspiration, rather than of annoyance. The young Pelicans feel a new and
strange power coming to them, and they stand in the nest and aimlessly
wave their now nearly grown wings, until some day an impulse prompts
them to spring into the air.^{110} The immediate result is a humiliating
tumble, for Pelicans, unlike smaller birds, must learn to fly. Once on
the ground he has a safer place to practice, and with a hop, skip, and a
flap, he makes brave efforts to mount skyward. Finally he succeeds, and
the awkward nestling becomes a creature of power and grace, sailing away
on broad pinions to join its elders.
With this wonderful gift of flight comes a complete change in the
Pelican’s character and behavior. From a noisy, quarrelsome fledgeling,
whose days were passed in screaming and squabbling, he is transformed
into a dignified, patriarchal-like bird so absolutely voiceless that I
have never heard a wild Pelican utter a sound, nor do I know of any one
who has; while in disposition he has become so peaceful that under the
strongest provocation he shows no desire to protest.
Just what has influenced him—who can say? It is one of Nature’s
mysteries. But let us hope that the same charm may be exerted on every
noisy, quarrelsome creature.