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Killdeer Breeding in Eastern 

 Massachusetts 



The Squire and Derby farms in Revere 

 slope gently down to the edge of the wide 

 expanse of Lynn marshes. Over the latter, 

 a shallow sheet of salt water creeps up, 

 on the high run of tides, to touch the 

 edge of the highland grasses. 



In a long, narrow pasture, bordering a 

 part of the marsh, are a few fresh-water 

 mud-holes; while, out on the marsh, are 

 the usual muddy tide sloughs, where Yel- 

 lowlegs and smaller shore-birds love to 

 feed and rest during migration. Much of 

 the upland is covered with market gar- 

 dens, and there are several broad fields in 

 grass. 



On June 25, 1913, while exploring this 

 region for possible shore-birds, I unex- 

 pectedly ran upon three Killdeer, a bird 

 I had rarely seen before, and then only 

 in spring and autumn, considering them 

 possible only as transients. All authori- 

 ties give them as extremely rare in New 

 England, although many years ago they 

 were common. 



Each year since 1913, I have found 

 Killdeer present in this locality during 

 the breeding season, my dates ranging 

 from April 25 to September 27, and in 

 each of the intervening months. I have 

 never seen more than five birds at a time. 



This region is very thoroughly gunned, 

 in season, and I have seen Killdeer shot 

 at, but they seem to hold their own, and 

 show up in about the same numbers 

 each year. 



I have never been fortunate enough to 

 find either eggs or immature birds, but 

 their continued presence through the 

 breeding season, for several years, surely 

 indicates their breeding. 



Living several miles from the region 

 described, I have not been able to study 

 the birds so closely as I should like. I 

 find them in a variety of surroundings, 

 from the shallow tide pools to the plowed 



ground of the market-gardens.— Arthur 

 P. Stubbs, Lynn, Mass. 



An Upland Plover's Nest 



High on a New Hampshire hillside is a 

 grassy pasture. For fifty years and more 

 the pasture has held its own against the 

 slowly advancing forest; and the winds 

 move pleasantly over its dry, thin grasses, 

 its hard-hack, and its gray, lichen-covered 

 rocks. Now its wildness has been pro- 

 faned, for a house of field stones has 

 cropped out where the stone wall traced a 

 boundary; but the Dwellers-in-the-House 

 hallow the pasture and its creatures. 



Perhaps of all the bird music we love 

 most the plaintive notes of the Upland 

 'Plover.' These wild, shy sandpipers are 

 not afraid of us, and alight on fence posts, 

 raise their wings high above their backs, 

 extend them and then tuck them nicely 

 in place and utter their cry, ejang us the 

 while. We follow them as they wade 

 through the grass — always at our distance. 



It was the spring-time (1916). The pro- 

 longed wail, vague and sad, of the Plovers 

 rose in our upland pasture. I watched 

 them carry on their odd courtship; hop- 

 ping toward each other, twittering, flying 

 away, then repeating it all again, the 

 hopping, twittering and retreating. Un- 

 gainly, spirit-voiced birds! Once from out 

 the black, vibrant night came the eerie, 

 long-drawn whistle of a Plover-lover. 



And then came the discovery! It was 

 on May 21 and in the pasture directly 

 in front of the house. An Upland Plover 

 had whirred up before us, fluttering over 

 the ground on and on, and dragging its 

 poor wings as though broken. Distracted, 

 brave mother-bird, she did her part! but 

 her treasure was too near us! For under 

 our feet was the nest — the nest of Bar- 

 tramia longicaudal Simple it was; just 

 four large, pointed eggs, blotched with 

 purplish brown, lying on the rough pas- 

 ture ground, encircled by wisps of dead 



(36s) 



