THE MAGDALENS 149 



it was now the latter half of July and the song sea- 

 son of most species was over. Fox Sparrows, how- 

 ever, were still singing, and their clear, ringing 

 whistle came from the spruces all about. The fogs, 

 so characteristic of the region, seemed in no way to 

 dampen their spirits, and when the gray mists closed 

 in thick about us their notes rang out as cheerily as 

 though the sun shone from a blue sky. 



My short excursions, however, were largely made 

 along the beaches in search of some sea waif, and 

 for the shore birds that would soon migrate through 

 these islands in large numbers, or to the cliffs where 

 the Guillemots were nesting. The latter were com- 

 parative strangers to me, and I had not become 

 accustomed to the plump, black, white-winged, little 

 birds that sat so lightly on the water. They nest in 

 scattered pairs, in crevices, in the face of the cliffs, 

 where my guide, Mr. Shelbourue, a resident col- 

 lector, was particularly apt at discovering them. 



Grosse Isle is not beyond the range of the nest- 

 robbing small boy, and only the few Guillemots that 

 had contrived to escape him now had young. They 

 were feeding them on sand eels, and with bills full 

 of their shining prey made frequent visits to their 

 nests. The young varied in development from those 

 as yet covered only with the scanty natal down to 

 others half grown and with the black and white 

 second plumage appearing beneath. They were ac- 

 tive enough to test the temper of the most patient 

 bird photographer, and the accompanying picture 

 was secured only after many trials. 79 



In the meantime we were endeavoring to make 

 some arrangements for our voyage to the Rock, 



