THE OOLOGIST 



3 



went over to Mr. Wayne's together 

 with my brother James, who was 

 home from college on a visit. We 

 left by automobile from Charleston, 

 crossed the Cooper River by ferry, and 

 after landing at Mt. Pleasant, ran the 

 nine miles from there to Mr. Wayne's 

 house in short order. After a few 

 preparations for entering the swamp, 

 we again set out by car for our ob- 

 jective point. The swamp, which is 

 known as Penny Dam Backwater lies 

 on the plantation of Mr. B. B. Furman, 

 in Christ Church Parish. Charleston 

 County, and is about twenty-one miles 

 Mt. Pleasant and twelve miles from 

 Porcher's Bluff, Mr. Wayne's home. 



We arrived at the swamp at about 

 11 a. m., but due to the fact that we 

 had to haul a boat by wagon to the 

 edge of the swamp from a point two 

 miles distant, it was just a little after 

 twelve o'clock when we Anally pushed 

 off into Penny Dam. 



The scene before us was one of 

 great beauty. Our way was down an 

 open lane on "lead" of dark wine- 

 colored water, flanked on either side 

 by age old cypress trees draped with 

 the pendant plumes of the usnea moss. 

 The silence was profound. We pad- 

 dled on for about a quarter of a mile 

 where the lead suddenly turned at 

 right angles and opened out to the 

 left. Turning into this we paddled on 

 for a short distance when the swamp 

 began to take on signs of life. Through 

 the green of the cypress trees and but- 

 ton woods were flashes of white and 

 discordant squawks which betokened 

 that we were disturbing some citizens 

 of Penny Dam. Upon looking up in a 

 small tree on the edge of the lead I 

 suddenly saw a large platform of 

 sticks and sitting around the rim were 

 three American Egrets. The others 

 pointed out various nests and many 

 young birds together with the adults 

 were sitting in the trees near at hand. 

 It was a most gratifying sight to see 



these lovely birds in such numbers 

 engaged in domestic affairs. While this 

 rookery was only a fraction of what 

 once used to be the plume hunters all 

 but exterminated this beautiful bird, 

 it was nevertheless encouraging to 

 know that the birds are regaining 

 their foothold slowly but none the 

 less surely. There were about twenty- 

 five or thirty nests, some with eggs, 

 but the majority held young birds, to 

 the number of from three to five. 



Continuing on our way we came to 

 a large open lagoon with small clumps 

 of buttonwood bushes standing here 

 and there. A veritable cloud of life 

 greeted us here. Little Blue Louisiana 

 and Black-crowned Night Herons 

 circled about us, perching on the 

 bushes once flying here and there 

 while the air rang to call, squawks and 

 other sounds of a Heron rookery. It 

 was a wonderful sight and we rested 

 on our paddles and enjoyed the scene 

 to the full. 



Suddenly Mr. Wayne pointed over 

 the water. We followed his gaze and 

 saw a white bird flying over the trees 

 on the far side of the lagoon. Its de- 

 curved bill and black primaries which 

 were plainly visible proclaimed it a 

 White Ibis. All else was forgotten in 

 a moment. We bent our energies in 

 covering the open stretch of water and 

 the boat fairly flew. We had just 

 gained the edge where the cypress 

 trees again rose in a high green wall 

 ahead of us. Hardly had the bow 

 entered the fringe when a long looked 

 for sight burst upon us. Score upon 

 score of beautiful "White Ibis rose 

 from the branches and circled about, 

 their black tipped wings beating the 

 air, and their cries almost deafening 

 us. Looking up we saw what we had 

 hoped, the trees were dotted with 

 nests. In all directions and in almost 

 every tree were nests upon nests. We 

 hardly knew where to begin. In front 

 of us was a small cypress about ten 

 feet high; once in the tree were five 



