Part 6

Five species are represented. Named in the order of their abundance they are the Tree, Bank, Barn, Eave, and Rough-winged Swallows. The last are comparatively rare, while the Tree Swallows are so in excess of all the species named that the following remarks relate largely to them alone.

Although Tree or White-breasted Swallows nest locally throughout North America, from the tableland of Mexico to Labrador and Alaska, there are but few instances of their breeding in the lower Hudson River valley, where they appear only as migrants or transient visitants. They arrive from the south early in April, and their northward migration is not concluded until about June 1st. During June they are rarely seen, but between the 1st and the 5th of July they begin their journey to their winter homes—a movement which inaugurates the fall migration.

This stage of their journey takes them only to certain marshes, which become stations on their line of travel where countless numbers of their kind, impelled by the flocking impulse, gather to roost in the reeds. Their numbers increase steadily through July and August, the maximum of abundance being reached about September 1st; then they gradually become less numerous, and by October 10th comparatively few remain, though if the weather be favorable, they may be observed daily until late in the month.

Throughout this period—from July to October—the marsh is used only as a dormitory, the reeds evidently offering suitable perches to these weak-footed birds, who in the morning radiate throughout the surrounding country and in the evening return to the marsh to sleep. In the evening they fly low, and the altitude and time of their flight make them conspicuous. In the morning they fly high, as though bound to some distant feeding ground, and at so early an hour that they usually escape observation. The evening flight, therefore, is generally considered as truly migratory, when, in fact, the same birds doubtless pass over a given locality night after night, perhaps for weeks, in returning to their roosts in the marshes.

[Illustration: 48. “Bird notes”—Tree Swallows.]

These evening flights begin about two hours and a half before sunset, when the birds, after resting during the late forenoon and early afternoon, usually on some telegraph wire,^{48} begin to wheel and circle over the fields in pursuit of their evening meal, when one might imagine they were resident birds, but observation will show that the general trend of their movement is toward the roost.

This continues for an hour to an hour and a half, a cloudy evening hastening their actions, when their flight becomes more direct. Few birds pause to feed, but hurry on to the roosting places, and as the light fades the last birds rush through the gloom with arrowy speed and directness. The birds pass in straggling flocks, and periods of abundance are succeeded by intervals of scarcity, as though the individuals which had been associated during the day were journeying home together.

Thus the Swallow’s evening flight may be observed throughout the region surrounding the marshes; even in New York city they may be seen feeding above the houses, and after sunset flocks of swift-flying birds are often confused by the telegraph wires, which, however, their dexterity of wing permits them to pass without serious harm.

In the marshes the first birds are seen about two hours before sunset. Many follow the course of the river, and if one be at its border splash after splash is heard as the birds dip lightly into the water, followed by soft fluffs as arising from the stream they shake their plumage. Soon the air is filled with Swallows, all streaming toward the roost with increasing swiftness.

Many birds, however, as though waiting for some tardy comrades, rest by the way, perching on telegraph wires should they cross the marsh, or when these are wanting, on the tips of the reeds. They invariably face the wind, and when it is from the west the last rays of the sun striking their white breasts make them appear like snowy flowers crowning the reeds. Suddenly, with a rush, they whirl onward to the roost.

Thus far the exact location of this roost has defied my search. I have, however, roughly defined the bounds of that section of the marsh in which it is placed by observation stands at which the Swallows flew north and south respectively, and somewhere between the two I still hope to discover the Swallows’ sleeping haunts.

The following description of their departure from the marshes in the morning is abstracted from my journal, under date of August 15, 1886: “A cool, clear morning, with a light northwesterly wind. I reached the marshes shortly before five o’clock, when they appeared to be deserted, not a Swallow being in sight. At two minutes of five the first birds were observed, then flock after flock they came until at five the air was filled with hurrying forms, flying at varying altitudes toward the north.

“Suddenly, from the meadows near me there arose a vast cloud of Swallows, doubtless birds which had come from farther south in the marsh before my arrival. Steadily they mounted upward, until having attained a height where with a strong glass they appeared faint dots against the sky, they slowly winged their way northward.

“All the time the meadows were alive with birds feeding in every direction; gradually they passed to the north, when another huge flock arose from the marsh, and after gaining an immense height disappeared, this time toward the east.

[Illustration: 49. Tree Swallows in tree.]

“As the sun rose over the Palisades few birds were on the wing, but great flocks were perched in the reeds on the banks of the creek, and as in my canoe I drifted slowly up to them, they seemed unmindful of my presence, when, as though at a signal, they arose as one bird, and after hovering lightly overhead returned to the reeds.

“The tide was low, and along the shore several Sora Rail were feeding, and, as carried by the tide I floated noiselessly by, they paused in their search for food, and with tails upraised regarded me with evident astonishment. A mink approached the shores of a small inflowing stream, hesitated, then plunged in, crossed, and disappeared in the tall grasses on the opposite side. The air was vocal with the calls of Red-winged Blackbirds, the _chink_ of Bobolinks, and the rattle of Swamp Sparrows.

“On a reed-grown point below was another great army of Swallows. With surprising regularity a detachment left it every fifteen minutes; thus, birds left at 6, 6.15, 6.30, and 6.45, when the reeds were deserted. The departing birds did not arise alone, but the entire flock arose at once, then divided into two flocks, one of which flew northward while the other returned to the reeds. Many of the departing birds alighted on the reeds farther up the creek; their numbers constantly received additions from the ranks of passing birds, and thus new flocks were formed.

“At eight o’clock the last Swallows had left the reeds in my vicinity, but birds were constantly passing toward the north, and this straggling flight continued until nine o’clock, when again the marshes appeared deserted.”

Subsequent observations have been made largely from a road crossing the marsh, the telegraph and electric-light wires which border it being the resting place of vast numbers of Swallows, both at night and in the morning. Particularly do they throng the wires near the creek, which flows north and south through the marsh, and which, it is interesting to observe, forms a natural highway for the Swallows as they go to and from their roosts.

On the sides of this road are several small maple trees, to which the Swallows often resort in such numbers that their foliage trembles as though in a strong breeze, it not being the birds’ object to perch in the trees, but to flutter among the dew-laden leaves, and apparently bathe in the moisture they contain, while between the baths they rest on the smaller terminal twigs, when they are very difficult to observe.^{49} This habit does not appear to have been previously recorded, and I am by no means certain that the explanation offered is the true one.

[Illustration: 50. Tree Swallows on wire and nest hunting about pile.]

Frequently one or more flocks, varying in size from eight or ten to several hundred birds, may be seen in the road, where I at first supposed they were “dusting,” but soon noticed that most of the birds after alighting in the road were motionless. They did not move about as though searching for food, but occasionally the actions of a pair enabled one apparently to determine the sex of each individual, and more often a bird would pick up a bit of dried grass and fly up into the air with it. Sometimes it was carried fifty yards or more and then dropped; at others, the birds would carry it to the telegraph wires above, and drop it after perching a moment. Without exception, all the birds seen to alight in the road were in the dull, immature plumage of birds of the year, and in their actions, as Mr. William Brewster has remarked (The Auk, 1898, p. 194), they evidently gave a premature exhibition of the procreative and nest-building instincts.^{51}

Additional evidence of the possession of inherited knowledge was apparently given by many Tree Swallows, who were frequently seen hovering about a pile standing in the creek.^{50} At first it was supposed that these birds were feeding on insects which had alighted on the pile; but the number of birds—often a dozen or more—seen fluttering about it, and the persistency with which they remained there, forced the conclusion that in a wholly unreasoning way they were looking for a nesting site.

Swallows are not known to migrate by night, and, so far as I am aware, no single Swallow has ever been found among the thousands of night-flying birds which have perished by striking lighthouses. The Swallows, therefore, when migrating probably leave the marsh during the day, but in what manner who can say?

[Illustration: 51. Immature Tree Swallows gathering nesting material.]

Several times when crossing the marshes on the cars I have observed gatherings of Swallows which made the immense flocks observed daily in August and September seem little more than a family of birds. They appeared in the distance like a vast swarm of gnats; it was as though all the Swallows in the marsh had collected in one great storm of birds. The significance of this movement I have never had the fortune to determine, but it seems highly probable that it is connected with the inauguration of an actual migration toward the birds’ winter quarters.

TWO DAYS WITH THE TERNS

Terns are useless for food, and can not therefore be classed as “game birds.” So far as we know they are of no special economic value. Consequently, when one protests against their practical annihilation for millinery purposes, he is not infrequently answered: “Well, what good are they?” The question exposes so absolute a failure to appreciate the bird’s exquisite beauty and unexcelled grace—such a discouraging materialism—that one realizes the hopelessness of replying.

I confess I find it impossible to describe satisfactorily just what the presence of Terns along our coast means to me. It is not alone their perfection of color, form, and movement which appeals to one, but also the sense of companionship they bring; and doubtless this feeling is emphasized by the impressive loneliness of the sea, which makes anything alive doubly welcome. And so the coming of a single one of these beautiful creatures changes the character of the bay or shore. With unfailing pleasure one watches its marvelously easy flight, its startling darts for its food of small fish, and when it disappears the scene loses a grateful element of life.

A milliner’s hunter or fisherman, however, might have made a very different reply to the unimaginative individual who asked the value of Terns. The former would have told him that they were worth about ten cents each for hat trimmings; the latter would have said that their eggs made excellent omelets; and each has done his best—the one to lay all Terns on the altar of Fashion, the other to see that none of their eggs escaped the frying pan.

In the meantime a number of bird lovers have taken up the battle for the Terns in their few remaining strongholds, and the brief history of Tern destruction and protection is full of suggestive incidents.

It was about twenty years ago that Terns first found favor in woman’s eyes, and during the few succeeding years hundreds of thousands of these birds were killed on the Atlantic coast for milliners. Cobb’s Island, on the coast of Virginia, is credited with having supplied forty thousand in a single season, and, as one of the killers recently confessed to me that he knew of fourteen hundred being killed in a day, the story is doubtless true. Their delicate white and pearl-gray feathers were, of course, badly blood-stained; but good and bad, the skins were washed and then thrown into a barrel of plaster, which was rolled up and down the beach until the moisture was absorbed from their plumage. A Long Island taxidermist used a patent churn for this purpose.

The destruction at other favorable points was proportionately great, and in two or three years one looked in vain for the Terns which had previously so enlivened our shores.

The protection afforded by an insular existence was now given a practical and striking illustration. The Terns which nested on the mainland or nearlying sand bars were soon extirpated, but on certain less accessible, uninhabited islets, they still survived.

Thus all that were left of countless numbers of these birds which once inhabited the shores of Long Island were to be found on the Great Gull Island, while Muskeget and Penikese, off the Massachusetts coast, contained the only large colonies of Terns from Long Island to Maine. The existence of the Gull Island colony being threatened by collectors, the influence of several bird lovers secured the appointment of the keeper of the lighthouse on the neighboring islet, Little Gull, as a special game warden to enforce the previously useless laws supposed to protect the Terns.

The result was both encouraging and instructive. In two years it is estimated that the colony increased from two thousand to four thousand, and it was hoped that it might prove a nucleus from which the adjoining shores would eventually be restocked with Terns. But the Government at Washington selected Great Gull Island as a desirable point for fortifications, and before even this suggestion of war the poor Terns disappeared. For one season the laborers employed by the Government feasted on Terns’ eggs; then the gradual occupancy of the eighteen acres composing the islet forced the birds to seek homes elsewhere.

Hence it follows that if one would see Terns in numbers on the middle Atlantic coast to-day, he must journey to two small islets off Massachusetts, which thus far have afforded them a refuge. Interesting it is to recall that on Martha’s Vineyard, lying between the two, are found the only living representatives of the Heath Hen, or Eastern Prairie Hen, which was once locally abundant in certain parts of the Eastern and Middle States.

In 1889 I visited the Terns of Great Gull Island, and a desire to be again surrounded by these birds, and perhaps secure photographs of them and their way of living, brought me on July 16, 1899, to Wood’s Holl, Massachusetts, _en route_ to whichever Tern headquarters it might prove most convenient to reach.

Quite unexpectedly there proved to be a small colony of Common and Roseate Terns on three islets, known as the Weepeckets, standing in Buzzard’s Bay, near the entrance to Wood’s Holl. In all, there were probably between three and four hundred birds, of which by far the greater number appeared to be domiciled on the largest of the three islands. This contains from ten to twelve acres of sand, grown with beach grass, scrub sumach, bayberries, and a few stunted pines about two feet in height.

On this apparently uninviting bit of land I passed two delightful days alone with the Terns. The accompanying photographs tell far more of the birds than pen can well express, but they convey no suggestion of the pleasure I experienced in again finding myself among them.

[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.]