Where the Black Tern Builds 



By Edward B. Clark 



The little vilage of Worth lies just beyond the smoke of factory-filled 

 Chicago. It is on the marshes of Worth that the black terns build their nests ; it 

 is in the thorn thickets that hedge the pastures that the loggerhead shrikes make 

 their homes ; the rails, the redwings, and the wrens haunt the reedy swamps ; 

 and the hawks and the crows live in the heavy timber. Outside of a race-track 

 and the many birds that flock in its fields. Worth has few attractions to offer. 

 The race-track draws thousands of people daily for a short season, but the birds' 

 visitors are few. In no other place, perhaps, so near the great city, could the 

 black terns nest in peace. Certain it is that Worth is the only place readily 

 accessible to the city bird-student where these "soft-breasted birds of the sea" 

 may be found during the season of courtship and housekeeping. Black terns are 

 abundant in the shop windows and upon the hats of thoughtless women. The 

 shop birds and the bonnet birds are wired and twisted into positions of grotesque 

 ugliness. There never was a line of beauty in the stuffed bird of a milliner. 

 Would that woman could see it ! The black terns of Worth are living ; the sweep 

 of their wings is as graceful as are the curving blades of the swamp flags. There 

 is a price upon the head of the black tern because the milliner covets the bird 

 that it may be used as a means for a second temptation of woman. Neither the 

 black tern of Worth nor the Wilson's tern nesting in northern Wisconsin can long 

 survive the demands of fashion for which the word cruel is far too feeble an 

 adjective. 



I wandered one late May day through the music-filled fields of Worth. My 

 destination was the Phillips farm, which lies about a mile from the depot. The 

 orioles were whistling wherever a treetop ofifered a swaying perch. The meadows 

 were literally filled with singing bobolinks. I passed a little country school- 

 house; the children were singing the opening song of the morning. On the 

 ridge-pole above them was perched a black-throated bunting, who was adding 

 his mite of music to swell the chorus. A little farther on I made the acquaintance, 

 that morning, of the grasshopper sparrow. It is a tiny field-loving bird, with a 

 song which much resembles the sound made by the insect for which it is named. 

 One of the sparrows took perch on a slender weed which its weight was not 

 sufficient to bend, and there gave me a sample of its vocal power, though, perhaps, 

 I might better say vocal weakness. It will not do, however, to despise the grass- 

 hopper sparrow's song, for some day when greed has caused the killing of all 

 the larger birds we may turn for enjoyment to this humble little feathered rustic. 



On either side of the Phillips farmhouse there is an orchard, while hedges 

 that do duty as fences extend in all directions. On that May morning at the 

 end of the porch there were four wild rose bushes in full bloom. A syringa, with 



347 



