Terns 



with a hopeless pertinacity that no other mode of hat trimming 

 seems wholly to divert. Chicken feathers, arranged to imitate 

 them, are necessarily accepted as substitutes more and more, how- 

 ever. 



Through the efforts of Mr. Mackay, of Nantucket, the terns 

 are at last protected on a number of low, sandy islands adjacent 

 to his home, where nesting colonies had resorted from the earliest 

 recollection until they were all but exterminated by the com- 

 panies of men and boys who sailed over from the mainland to 

 collect plumage and the delicately flavored eggs. Muskegat and 

 Penekese Islands, off the extreme southeastern end of Massachu- 

 setts the latter made famous by Agassiz and Gull Island, off the 

 Long Island coast, the only nesting grounds left these sea swal- 

 lows in the north, are now guarded by paid keepers, who see to 

 it that no unfriendly visitor sets foot on the shores until the downy 

 chicks are able to fly in September. It was mainly through the 

 efforts of Mr. William Dutcherthat the terns were taken under the 

 protection of the A. O. U., the Linnaean Society, and the A. S. P. 

 C. A., at Gull Island. In May the terns begin to arrive from the 

 south, having apparently mated on the journey. Little or no 

 part of the honeymoon is spent in making a nest, as any little 

 accumulation of drift, or the bare sand itself, will answer the 

 purpose of these shiftless merry-makers that no responsibilities 

 can depress nor persecution harden. Lightness and grace of 

 flight, as well as of heart, are their certain characteristics. Before 

 family cares divert them, in June, how particularly lively, dashing, 

 impetuous, exultant, free, and full of spirit they are! A sail across 

 to the terns' nesting grounds is recommended to those summer 

 visitors who sit about on the piazzas complaining of ennui at 

 Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, and Shelter Island. 



As a boat approaches a nesting colony on one of the few 

 low, sandy islands where one may be still found, a canopy or 

 cloud of birds spreads overhead a surging mass of excited 

 creatures, darting, diving in a maze without plan or direction, 

 like a flurry of huge snowflakes through the summer sky. The 

 air fairly vibrates with the sharp, rasping notes of alarm uttered 

 in a mighty chorus of complaint, very different from the almost 

 musical call, half melancholy, half piping, that the birds con- 

 tinually utter when undisturbed. If the visit be made to the 

 island in June, the upper beach, above the reach of tide, will be 



