Brewster on Terns of the New England Coast. 19 



rage, protest, and despair. The effect was indescribable. As the 

 graceful birds came whirling down in perfect silence, they seemed 

 like dread avengers seeking to bear away their dead comrade and 

 to overwhelm his destroyer. If another bird were killed, the 

 tumult continued and the excitement became even more intense ; 

 but if no further molestation were offered, they gradually departed 

 one by one. This habit of hovering over their slain companions, 

 though undoubtedly prompted by sympathy and social affection, is 

 a most unfortunate one, as it is constantly taken advantage of, and 

 dozens are frequently killed at a time. 



Upon Muskegat the Terns have, or had at the time of which I 

 write, another enemy, which, though second in importance to man, 

 nevertheless destroyed large numbers of these birds. This was the 

 Short-eared Owl (Brachyotus palustris). A small colony of these 

 birds had established itself upon a certain elevated part of the 

 island, spending the day in a tract of densely matted grass. Scat- 

 tered about in this retreat were the remains of at least a hundred 

 Terns, that they had killed and eaten. Many of these were fresh, 

 while others were in every stage of decomposition, or dried by the sun 

 and wind. In each case the breast had been picked clean, but in 

 no instance was any other portion disturbed. Every day, at a cer- 

 tain time, these Owls sallied forth in search of fresh prey. We used 

 regularly to see them about sunset, sailiug in circles over the island 

 or beating along the crests of the sand-hills. They were invariably 

 followed by vast mobs of enraged Terns, which dived angrily down 

 over the spot where the Owl had alighted, or strung out in the wake 

 of his flight like the tail of a comet. The Owl commonly paid little 

 attention to this unbidden following, and apparently never tried to 

 seize his persecutors while on the wing, but on several occasions we 

 saw a sitting bird pounced upon and borne off. Sometimes in the 

 middle of the night a great outcry among the Terns told where a 

 tragedy was being enacted. 



I found the Terns sadly diminished in numbers when I last 

 visited Muskegat, in July, 1874. Their persecutors were ravishing 

 their stronghold more relentlessly than ever, and nearly every day 

 fishermen came from far and near to collect their eggs. So cleanly 

 had they swept the island that we could find scarcely a nest with 

 eggs, and at that comparatively late date not a single young bird 

 was to be seen. In fact, the poor Terns were kept laying like hens 

 through the whole summer. We were told by the fishermen that 



