Part 7

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.

THE BIRD ROCKS OF THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE

PERCÉ AND BONAVENTURE

The naturalist realizes with the utmost sadness that the encroachments of civilization are rapidly changing the conditions of animal life on this small sphere of ours, and that soon he may find Nature primeval only in its more remote or inaccessible parts.

Forest life vanishes with the demand for timber, which sends the axeman in advance of the agriculturist. The tillable plains, prairies, and bottom lands are transformed by the plow. The sandy beaches suffer with an eruption of summer hotels and cottages, and within the confines of civilization only such useless portions of the earth’s surface as the arid deserts and barren mountain tops, marshy wastes and rocky or far-distant islets, have been unaltered by man.

It is especially to the preserving influences of island life that we owe the continued survival of many animals which have greatly decreased or become exterminated on the mainland, as has been remarked of the Terns and Heath Hen—two illustrations among hundreds that might be given. Certain animals, therefore, are not only more abundant on islands, but, if their home be not shared by man, they exhibit a tameness surprising to one who has known only the timid, man-fearing creatures of the mainland.

On several uninhabited West Indian islets the sailors of Columbus killed Pigeons and other birds with sticks, or caught them in their hands. Darwin writes of the “extreme tameness” of the birds of the Galapagos, and tells of pushing a Hawk off its perch with the muzzle of his gun. Moseley, on Inaccessible and Kerguelen Islands, had similar experiences.

The Albatrosses of the Laysan Islands show far less fear of man than do barnyard fowls—in short, if it were necessary, hundreds of instances might be cited to show that distrust of man is an acquired and not a natural trait of animals.

Having these facts in mind, therefore, I bethought me of some island or islands which were neither at the antipodes nor either pole, and where birds were not only abundant, but in such happy ignorance of man that no difficulty would be experienced in securing their photographs. These would not only have a present interest and value, but would also form permanent records of conditions already threatened by the destructive tendencies of the age.

After carefully considering all the more easily reached islets of the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, my choice fell on certain of the bird rocks of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The name bird rock is used in both a general and a special sense. In the former it may be applied to many of the rocky islets of the gulf, in the latter it relates exclusively to _the_ Bird Rocks at the northeastern end of the Magdalen group.

Percé Rock, Bonaventure Island, the Magdalens, and the Bird Rocks themselves seemed to offer the best opportunities to the bird photographer, and, accompanied by my best assistant, I departed for the first named on July 2, 1898.

Percé Rock^{71} (so named because its base has been pierced by the action of the waves) lies about three hundred feet off the land at the town of Percé, on the west side of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

A semiweekly steamer from Dalhousie, near the head of Bay of Chaleur, furnishes the regular means of communication with Percé, and the town at once possesses a distinction over any place on the line of a railway. For, aside from every other reason, there is a pervasiveness about the smoke of a railway locomotive which contaminates the atmosphere and robs local influences of half their potency. Doubtless there are persons who would be glad to change the aroma of Percé’s fishyards for the stifling air of a railway tunnel, but give me the pungent odor of Percé’s drying cod unadulterated.

Even the steamer does not touch Percé, and we were landed by a boat in a sea just rough enough to make the experience interesting. At the pier no hotel agent greeted us, for Percé possesses neither hotel nor boarding house, and summer resorters are almost unknown. This was a delightful discovery. We had come in search of an isolated colony of birds, and we found also an isolated colony of man—quaint fisher folk whose _patois_ French had a gratefully foreign sound.

[Illustration: 71. Percé Rock from the north.]

Lodgings were secured at the home of a retired fisherman, and immediately we sallied forth to pay tribute to the Rock from the nearest point on the mainland. Its size and precipitousness were both surprising and impressive. Seen from the land it seemed like the hull of some great ship which had gone ashore here in the age of the Titans. Nearly three hundred feet high at the bow, with a beam of about one hundred, and a length over all of twelve hundred feet, it was not likely to be boarded by the most nimble seaman.

Doubtless an expert climber, properly equipped with ropes and assistants, might reach the summit; but as the last man to make the attempt, some fifty years ago, lost his life, the town authorities have imposed a fine of five pounds on any one who shall be found guilty of scaling or trying to scale the Rock, and the law, incidentally, protects the birds as well as man.

The top of the Rock is occupied by a colony of probably between two and three thousand Herring Gulls and Double-crested Cormorants. The guidebooks array these birds in picturesque cohorts which make the Cormorants’ part of the Rock black, the Gulls’ white; and they further state that should a black bird chance to trespass on the Gulls’ territory, he is immediately surrounded by a consuming white cloud, and _vice versa_. But be it said to the disgrace of man and the credit of birds, that the Cormorants and Gulls nest side by side apparently on terms of the greatest amity.

At this point it should be stated that my photographic outfit consisted of an ancient but useful 4 × 5 “Waterbury Detective,” containing a wide angle, short-focus lens, and designed for general handwork; a 4 × 5 long-focus “Premo” with a 6½-inch trade lens and Unicum shutter, for use from a tripod or in photographing nests, landscapes, etc., and a 5 × 7 twin lens with a 10-inch lens and Prosch shutter, a camera made especially for animal photography, but which was undesirably bulky.

None of these was of service in photographing the inhabitants of Percé Rock from the land, nor could a telephoto be used to advantage, the Rock being so much higher than the adjoining mainland. From a boat near the base of the southeast side of the Rock a better opportunity is afforded for photographing its summit, and the best of several attempts made at this point is here presented.^{72} Examined under a glass it conveys some idea of the number of birds occupying the top of the Rock; and while one regrets that the camera does so little justice to the subject, one can not but rejoice that here, at least, is one place to which probably for all time birds may return each year and rear their young in perfect security.

In crevices in the face of the Rock numbers of Guillemots nest, and directly above the pierced opening dwell a colony of about thirty Kittiwakes, who have apparently taken up their residence in the Rock within comparatively recent years, since none were here in 1881 when Mr. William Brewster visited Percé.

[Illustration: 72. Percé Rock from southeast end. The Cormorants and Gulls may be dimly seen on the summit of the Rock.]

Wherever one be about Percé, in the town or out, the Rock is the prominent feature of the coast line. It dominates its surroundings as a snowcapped mountain rules its dependent ranges. To the bird lover it possesses a double fascination, and one is constantly attracted by the ceaseless cries of the throng of hovering birds, who in some indescribable way seem to invest their home with a sense of the charm, the freedom, the wildness of a sea-bird’s life. It is a true _bird_ rock; man has no part in it.

At sunset this bond between the Rock and its inhabitants seemed especially strong and real. Through a notch in the western hills the last rays of the sun fell squarely upon the Rock, illuminating it and the ever-present soaring Gulls after the land and the sea were in shadow. Slowly the light left the Rock, until it, too, was of the same gray-blue as its surroundings; then, like the beams from a searchlight, it struck the circling mass of Gulls, making them seem a flurry of snowflakes descending into the gloom below.

The pilgrim to Percé Rock will find that the object of his journey not only exceeds in grandeur his brightest imagination of it, but he will be further rewarded by discovering Percé itself and the country round about to be of exceptional interest and beauty. It was the season of codfishing, and every morning a fleet of a hundred or more stanch little boats, each with two men, put out into the bay for a day’s fishing. Their return, late in the afternoon, was an eventful part of the day. Then the beach was the center of attraction as boat after boat came in, the men depositing their catch on the sands, then setting up their tables and “splitting” the cod with surprising dexterity.^{73}

[Illustration: 73. Splitting cod on Percé beach. Percé Rock in the distance.]

This industry resulted in a singular habit among the Herring Gulls, which, when first seen, I was at a loss to explain. In a cultivated hillside bordering the town a flock of about fifty Gulls was observed eagerly devouring some food, which was apparently abundant. “Grasshoppers,” I thought, but on investigation the grasshoppers proved to be entrails, heads, vertebræ, etc., of codfish, which had been strewn over the fields as fertilizer. The Gulls took wing at my approach, and perched in long rows on the fences; a curious sight, of which I tried, but failed, to secure a picture.

It was through these fields, and along the crests of the red sandstone cliffs northwest of the town, that my walks oftenest led me. A few Herring Gulls nested on the ledges, and Mr. Kearton might have succeeded in securing the photographs of them. But I freely confess to an absence of both taste and talent as a cliffman, and was quite content, under the circumstances, to view the birds from above. They, however, had no scruples about approaching me, and uttering a threatening _ka-ka-ka_, which suggested the voice of a gigantic katydid, circled about my head or, with an alarming _swish_, swooped down so near me that I invariably was surprised into “ducking.” Here also were croaking Ravens, who seemed by no means shy, and on nearly every fence post was a Savanna Sparrow, by all odds the most abundant land bird observed.

[Illustration: 74. Young Savanna Sparrow.]

Turning from the cliffs, one soon reached the spruce and balsam forests, with their twittering Juncos, sweet-voiced White-throated Sparrows, Pine Finches, and numerous Warblers, and following the gently ascending lanes and pathways leading through the fragrant woods, arrived at the shrine-crowned summit of Mount St. Anne, twelve hundred feet above the gulf.

It is a superb view of boundless sea and forest which greets one from this vantage point—a striking combination of the charms of land and water. To the south, the Bay Chaleur with its broken coast line; to the west, a grand panorama of mountain and valley, all densely wooded—the home of bear, and deer, and caribou; to the north, a foreground of red cliffs and blue water, and, in the distance, Gaspé; to the east, the apparently limitless gulf and, seemingly beneath one, Bonaventure Island, Percé, and the Rock.

It was a view to remember; one, I trust, I may be privileged to behold again. I longed for time to explore the surrounding woods, but Bonaventure with its Gannets wielded a stronger fascination, and two days after our arrival we chartered a cod boat, with its crew, for the voyage to the Gannet rookeries on the eastern side of Bonaventure, distant about four miles.

The evident great strength of our craft in proportion to its size made it seem like a stunted vessel, and her captain and the crew, of one man, seemed built on the same lines. During the winter they were lumbermen in the region north of Ottawa, in the summer codfishers. It is doubtful if they could have selected occupations requiring greater endurance. They seemed as tough as rawhide, and as rough as pirates.

My good assistant they invariably spoke of as “the woman,” but both proved true men at heart, and as solicitous for our welfare as though their own lives of exposure had not trained them to laugh at hardship.

I may seem to give undue attention to the boatmen of a day; but there are days and days in our lives, and with neither my companion nor myself will time dim the memory of the day off Bonaventure.

There had been a heavy blow from the east the night before, the tide was ebbing, and ere we had passed the Rock, and while still under the lee of Bonaventure, our boat began to toss in a very disquieting manner. As we rounded the southwest end of Bonaventure we were more exposed to the action of the waves, but my physical balance was sustained by the anticipation of seeing “two, tree million of bird,” which the men declared would soon be visible on the cliffs.