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very like " what-a-pity, what-a-pity, what-a-pity." By this per- 

 formance we know that she has young in the vicinity, but as we 

 have a full day mapped out we pass on. A little farther on a red- 

 shank rises with a scream from the centre of a small straggling sloe 

 bush, barely eighteen inches square. There, in a hollow in the 

 centre, lie four beautifully marked eggs on the bare shingle. They 

 must be very highly incubated, otherwise she would have left them 

 long before we got within range. On this occasion, as time was 

 limited, we made arrangements for the various nests which we 

 were to photograph, to be marked beforehand. All the four species 

 of birds I am dealing with to-night, viz., the stone curlew or Norfolk 

 plover, the ringed plover, common and lesser terns, lay their eggs 

 more or less on the bare shingle. The common tern and ringed 

 plover sometimes make nests, those of the former being composed 

 of small sticks and other debris, and of the latter, of small pebbles, 

 mudflakes, etc; and had I more time I could show you an interest- 

 ing series of slides showing the variation in the nesting habits of 

 the latter bird. The first bird to be operated on was a Norfolk 

 plover, whose eggs were situated not far from a mass of broom and 

 foxgloves, among which the birds were no doubt hiding, and not far 

 from a colony of the common tern. 



The eggs, two in number, were laid in a small hollow on a bare 

 patch of soil, surrounded by sea campion and a few flowers of the 

 sea thrift. 



In getting the camera into position, and in order to get a good 

 side view photograph, due allowance must be made for the fact that 

 the bird nearly always faces the wind. More important still, if the 

 wind is blowing from the photographer to the nest, the bird will 

 scent him and will not return to the eggs. 



The camera and tent duly erected, I took up my position inside, 

 my assistant adding the final touches to make everything secure, 

 and then retiring to a distance. 



Now began a long and anxious watch. In the meantime the 

 common terns filled the air with their rather monotonous cries, 

 " kep-kep," hence their local name " keps." 



Time went by, and except for an occasional cry of the male 

 Norfolk plover in the distance, nothing was seen of either bird. I 

 had been watching through a peephole in the tent for three-quarters 

 of an hour, when a slight sound was heard on the beach, and I 

 espied the female approaching stealthily, with head lowered. As 

 she came nearer something happened which almost plunged me into 

 despair. A rush of wings overhead, as some bird swooped at her 

 time after time. She hesitated and ducked her head at each 

 onslaught, but to my relief made a sudden rush to her eggs. 



At the last swoop the familiar cry " kep " of the common tern 

 revealed the identity of the aggressor. We were evidently not far 

 from the latter's eggs, which she imagined the Norfolk plover was 

 about to raid. Both the common and lesser terns will swoop at 



