®ip MHarbUr 2 3 



I have yet observed was these Plovers on the blazing white sands of the 

 beach. Many times they have run ahead of^ne along the sandy strip, per- 

 fectly visible, then suddenly turn and face me and, strain my eyes as I might, 

 all I could distinguish would be a couple of ragged black streaks that might 

 have been sticks protruding from the sand until closer approach identified 

 them as the frontal and breast bands of the Plover, as he once more got 

 under way. This seems to be a favorite occupation of these " Bull- 

 heads" in the early spring, and one might easily imagine he was being 

 shown the beauties of the beach by the little feathered guide. A few yards 

 ahead he'll keep, legs twinkling merrily, pausing to run back and call if you 

 stop, going ahead once more as you follow. How different in the breeding 

 season ! 



Early one summer morning, to be exact, June third, I left a delightful 

 house that was nestled amid live oak and camphor trees, to visit the beach, 

 hoping to find a Plover's nest. The beach was a glistening stretch of purest 

 white sand that edged a marsh and occasional patches of woods ; not very 

 wide, probably only a hundred feet at its greatest, and in many places the 

 waters lapped the palmettos at high tide. The stretch was by no means a 

 free one like some I had visited in other parts of the State, but was strewn 

 with gaunt skeletons of trees that had been washed out and lay bleaching 

 i nd;r the hot sun. Nature, however, had so arranged these barren trunks 

 that they added rather than detracted from the beauty of the spot, and a 

 hermit-like Kingfisher, that seemed to be the only one of its kind here, 

 found them ideal perches. 



As I approached this strip, seemingly from nowhere there appeared a 

 female Plover, calling plaintively. Now I knew that the season of nesting 

 had begun. She was soon joined by a male and another female that chorused 

 with her their wishes for my departure. How she coaxed me to follow her ! 

 This I did for a time, trailing behind as she struggled along on one leg, the 

 other crumpled under her. Tediously she kept ahead, calling — sobbing, I 

 should have said— one of the most pathetic yet beautiful notes I have heard. 

 Surely, if ever there was a picture of parental distress it was she. Finally, 

 as though exhausted, she sank to the sand and lay on her side, gasping. 

 The other two flew back and forth overhead whistling plaintively but she 

 heeded them not, nor my approach, and lay there panting. I was sure now 

 that she was tired by her exertion, and hurried to catch her, only to learn 

 that she was "playing 'possum." She allowed me to almost touch her, and 

 then fluttered off again. Evidently she was not satisfied that her nest was 

 safe, and she tried new tactics this time. With seemingly broken wings that 

 trailed as though helpless at her sides, she started down the beach and once 

 more I followed after, but this time increased my speed. As I had about 

 caught up with her she gave a joyous whistle, sprang into the air, and those 



