172 WILD WINGS 



birds — rare and beautiful warblers, thrushes, and finches — 

 which nest in the fastnesses of their densely tangled needle- 

 foliage. Coastwise, I associate them with wave-lashed cliffs 

 or island shores strewn with stones and boulders, where sea- 

 birds congregate. So spruces or balsams, rocks, waves, and 

 sea-fowl, all fit harmoniously into the scenes which I shall 

 proceed to describe. 



Away off the southeastern coast of Nova Scotia, about 

 twenty miles out to sea, lies Seal Island, an ideal place of the 

 sort I have in mind. It is three miles long, densely overgrown 

 with spruces, which shelter many interesting northern birds. 

 Flocks of Crossbills, roaming through them, would make one 

 think it was suddenly winter, and a cold one at that. This 

 island forest is a great resort for the Bicknell's Thrush, a bird 

 rather hard, ordinarily, to find and study. All through these 

 woods, as well as in open places, the singular Leach's Petrels 

 — one of several species called by sailors "Mother Carey's 

 Chickens" — dig their rat-holes of burrows, and each female 

 lays a single white egi:;;. The great white Herring Gulls have 

 from time immemorial nested there in thousands, with hun- 

 dreds of the Common and Arctic Terns. Most of the shores 

 are sandy, but some of them are heaped up with cobble- 

 stones and boulders of all sizes and shapes, rounded by 

 the mighty power of the waves. Among these, hundreds 

 of the Black Guillemots — also called Sea Pigeons, or Sea 

 Widgeons — lay their eggs, with a few Puffins. The island 

 is owned by Mr. John Crowell, all except for the government 

 station on which the lighthouse stands, of which he is keeper. 

 A very few fishermen are also there, most of them only 

 during the fishing season. They come and go in small sail- 

 boats, and there is no communication, save casually, with the 

 outside world. 



Some years ago I stopped on the island over one night. 



