HEATH HEN 269 



(November 15, 1930) was still alive. It is the first time in the history 

 of ornithology that a bird has been studied in its normal environment 

 down to the very last individual. How long this bird will live 

 no one can safely predict ; its going is inevitable, and the death of this 

 individual will mean the death of its race, and then another bird 

 will have taken its place among the endless array of extinct forms. 

 Ornithologists, bird lovers, and sportsmen the world over, however, 

 will have the satisfaction of knowing that all that could be done has 

 been done to save this bird from extinction. The State department 

 has assured us that the last bird will be allowed to live, and when 

 death comes, whether it is due to old age, disease, or violence, we shall 

 know that the life of the last heath hen was not wilfully snuffed out 

 by man. [During the fall of 1931, this lone survivor disappeared.] 



Courtship. — There was no part of the behavior of the heath hen 

 more unique, more interesting, and more specialized than the ex- 

 traordinary performances during the courtship season. I vividly re- 

 member the thrill of hearing and seeing the heath hen's boom for 

 the first time on Marthas Vineyard Island during April, 1923. At 

 that time the birds came regularly to a definite part of the meadow 

 west of the reservation house. A wooden blind, 4 by 6 by 6 feet, 

 had been erected several years before for the convenience of the 

 large numbers of ornithologists who journeyed to the island each 

 year to get a glimpse of the heath hen. The blind had become a 

 part of the environment of the drumming field around which the 

 birds came to enact their fantastic dances without any fear of being 

 harmed. At times one or two of the birds would even alight on 

 the flat top of the structure, offering unexcelled opportunities for 

 study of the intimate details of their behavior. 



The following observations, as recorded in my notebook for April 

 11, 1923, are typical of the many mornings spent inside the blind : 



" I left the reservation house at 3.30 a. m. It was very dark and 

 only the faint light of the stars illuminated the way. The cold, 

 enervating air quickened my step, and as I walked along, the frosted 

 grass crunched under my feet with a metallic resonance. At this 

 early hour all was quiet so far as voices of birds were concerned. 

 I entered the blind, closed its door on creaky hinges, and prepared 

 myself to wait patiently for the first note of the heath hen. A 

 slight fog rolled in from the sea and for a time hid the stars. 

 At 3.55 a. m. with the first dim light of dawn I heard the clear 

 whistled notes of a bobwhite perched somewhere among the scrub 

 oaks. At 4.05 the first robin was heard chirping, and five minutes 

 later a vesper sparrow was singing its awakening song. In a short 

 while a host of other birds were adding their notes to the morning 

 chorus. At 4.21 the first " toot " of the heath hen was heard, a note 



