THE COMMON TERN. 501 
or possible cupidity shall be aroused by a brief account of a visit to these breed- 
ing grounds—to utter a solemn warning against the molestation of these linger- 
ing colonies. ‘The birds have been driven from our shores and islands by the 
wanton cruelty of pseudo-sportsmen, and by the combined activities of “egg- 
hogs,” scientific and commercial. The Terns have taken a last stand upon a 
group of islets known as “the Hen and Chickens,” with an outlying colony 
upon North Harbor Island. Here their isolation has afforded them a measure 
of relief, but the time is rapidly approaching when intelligent and cordial pro- 
tection alone can save them from extinction. Farmers of Isle St. George and 
Middle Bass! What are a few Terns’ eggs, even a bushel basket full, in com- 
parison with the matchless grace of the living bird, which delights your eye and 
that of ten thousand others each season? Spare the Terns! Sportsmen! if you 
be such, you will spare the Terns. It is not marksmanship, but a vulgar itch 
for blood-letting, which will tempt a man to such tame assassination as the 
death of a Tern affords. Plume-hunters! Ah! it is a wonder that men of 
your ilk have not bereft us of these birds long since, as they have for a thousand 
leagues along the Atlantic Coast. You sin in ignorance, we know, for your 
eye is dulled to beauty, and pity is ever invisible in the presence of dollars. The 
fault is with your masters, the miserable men milliners who order the slaughter 
of innocents by the wholesale, to supply “the trade.” And the fault is even 
more with those silly women who shamelessly flaunt your mummied atrocities 
in the faces of honest men. We reserve our indignation—against the more 
enlightened. 
During the summer of 1901, August 7-8, I visited the Canadian breeding 
haunts of the Tern in company with Professor Lynds Jones and his eight-year- 
old son, Leo. Leaving Isle St. George at an early hour, in a row-boat, we 
headed for the nearest colony, that on Chicken Island. As we approached over 
the shimmering, sunlit waters, inquiring Terns passed the time of day with 
us. Their interest unquestionably centered upon the island ahead, and many 
were bearing small white fish in their beaks. As we drew near enough to the 
islet to mark a few circling birds the entire population took sudden flight to 
the number of two thousand,—a magnificent spectacle. 
Chicken Island is a small mass of morainic gravel, an acre or so in extent. 
and resting on a concealed foundation of limestone. The gravel has been re-sort- 
ed by the waves, which have left the material in terraces substantially con- 
tinuous throughout the circumference. A small fisherman’s hut and two willow 
trees redeem the island from absolute desolation, while the birds are to be 
found everywhere, even invading the deserted hut itself. ‘The odor of guano 
was tolerably strong, but the sight of the restless, hovering multitude of “Sea 
Swallows” made anything endurable. 
Altho the season was far advanced, nests and eggs abounded, making 
it appear probable that the colony had been plundered earlier in the summer, 
