THE SHORE PATROL 207 



habit of certain species — naturally enough the Phalaropes, 

 and notably the Golden Plover and the Eskimo Curlew. One 

 of the most fascinating possibilities of the fall flight time 

 — late in August and during September — is that a violent 

 easterly gale may occur and deflect to our shores great num- 

 bers of these fine birds, which are of particular interest because 

 of the halo of mystery and romance — we may say — which 

 surrounds them. These exciting occasions, alas, are becom- 

 ing more and more rare, yet I keenly enjoy the remembrance 

 of some of them, especially of one which I shall now describe. 

 The twenty-ninth of August, 1883, according to my journal, 

 was the date of the first autumnal hurricane. For nearly two 

 months I had been camping, with friends, at Chatham, 

 Massachusetts, studying the birds of sea and shore. Our tent 

 was pitched on a grassy slope, a few rods up from the bay. 

 During the previous afternoon the wind had freshened from 

 the northeast, and masses of stratus cloud and fog, rolling in 

 from the sea, began to underlie the high cirrus streamers 

 from a contrary direction. At bedtime, making everything 

 fast, we sought our blankets. But at midnight there came to 

 our ears a cry. It was the roar of the storm which threatened 

 our frail shelter, while the sea had risen to our very door. 

 After a disturbed, uncomfortable night, the day broke gray 

 and wet. Looking out, we saw the waters, even of the bay, 

 a mass of raging foam. The rain was driving almost parallel 

 with the ground, while ever and anon came a terrific blast 

 that would almost carry one away with the helpless raindrops 

 flying before it. Out on the open sea great waves followed 

 one after another in quick succession, and thundered in on 

 the beach, bringing, it seemed, the ocean bottom along with 

 them, for, as far out as one could see, the ocean was mingled 

 with sand and masses of weed, trophies of the violence of the 

 storm. 



