The Depredations of Cats on Muskeget Island 



By G. K. Noble 



TO me, there is no sight so inspiring, so thrilling', as a seabird colony at 

 the height of its breeding season. The great clonds of shrieking, 

 careening birds that hover overhead, the fuzzy little youngsters that scurry 

 away from one's very feet, the nests with their treasures so carelessly ex- 

 posed to view, — all possess some indescribable fascination. 



Of the various colonies which now dot our Atlantic seaboard, Muskeget 

 Island is especially noteworthy. Forty-five thousand birds, including the 

 Common, Roseate and Arctic Terns, and the Laughing Gull, have assembled 

 on this small island for the past few years. But now there has entered into 

 this veritable paradise, slaughter and desolation. Thoughtless owners have 

 abandoned their cats upon this land, leaving them to tear down the great 

 work which the state of Massachusetts has erected. 



It was during the early part of my stay upon the island that the grue- 

 ioin 1 sights were brought to my attention. Mother birds, their bodies part- 

 ly eaten, appeared at every step. Nearly all had been killed while incubat- 

 ing, and their bodies still partly concealed their decaying eggs. Over one 

 region of the island, — the extreme westerly part, — the Terns and Gulls have 

 been completely exterminated. Evidences of their futile attempts to nest 

 are shown in the white feathers and bleaching bones visible on all sides. 



As the season wore on and the young hatched out, they also became 

 the victims of the ruthless cats. It was a common sight to see, during one 

 short walk across the island, half a hundred young, either dead or dying, 

 with their heads cruelly lacerated and their wings crushed and bleeding. 

 During this period, indeed, it seems that the cats killed the young birds 

 simply for the mere sport of it. I remember that on July the eighteenth of 

 this year, the day that we broke up camp and when out for a last look at 

 the birds, during this short walk I picked up the bodies of over a dozen 

 young. In each case only the head and breast was eaten. This was indeed 

 an awful impression to carry away as my last remembrance of the island. 



But this destruction does not go on entirely unchecked. Mr. George 

 E. Coffin, the watchful warden, is an expert shot, and he uses his skill to 

 good advantage. Still the scanty vegetation on the island offers the hunter 

 little protection and puts stalking the cats out of the question. Three of 

 the cats were brought down during our ten days stay by Mr. Coffin. Yet 

 there is at least five times as many of these semi-wild cats left on the island. 



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