A Heath Hen Quest 



By KATHERINE B. TIPPETTS 



WHEN, a few years ago, a Boston ])aper came out with the startling 

 headline "Bill passed to protect the Heathen on Martha's Vineyard," 

 it seemed to the uninitiated as if the legislature was usurping the 

 rights of the home missionary. To those more fully informed — the game-com- 

 missioner and bird-lover — it appeared a huge joke. 



The island of Martha's Vinej-ard, Massachusetts, is the home of a recently 

 almost extinct game-bird, Tympaniichus cupido, the Heath Hen, — or, to use the 

 vernacular of the islander, 'Heath'en. ' The clever writer of the article mentioned, 

 wishing no doubt to introduce a touch of local color, had used the name Heath'en, 

 and the apostrophe had been lost in the setting up. 



Although this headline caused many a smile, the bill in itself was no joke, 

 as was proven recently when, in company with a number of other Audubon 

 Society members, I visited the Heath Hen in its native haunts, and talked with 

 the warden the bill had made possible. 



It had been four years since I first saw Tympanuchus, and that just before 

 he was protected. I had wandered over down and dune and penetrated vast 

 jungles of scrub-oak for two seasons, in company with another bird student, 

 seeking his whereabouts. As our second strenuous season was about ended, we 

 were rewarded most richly. I can feel the tingle of startled joy — the rapture- 

 return after four years, as I recall this first appearance. 



The day was in mid-September, — a luminous, song-lilting sort of day. We had 

 left the aster-starred downs and come into the undulating country, where the 

 slopes were already taking on a mosaic of colors which must ever be the despair 

 of the realistic artist. 



We were not dreaming of "elusive Tym, " as I familiarly designated the 

 object of our quest, amid all this glory. Further along, within the scrub-oak 

 thickets, we might find some trace of him, but hope had long since become tinged 

 with resignation. 



The ubiquitous Kingbirds flitted saucily before us, and the Towhees rustled 

 in the dry leaves under the bushes. We entered the edge of the forest of scrub- 

 oak reverently. One does learn to revere the unattainable. And what more unat- 

 tainable than a glimpse of Tympanuchus cupido these last two years? A mighty 

 scurrying to our left. " Rioting Towhees, " I exclaimed, and then gasped " Heath 

 Hens!" 



There they were — a ])air of them — looking as natural as the stufifed specimen 

 in the Museum of Natural History. They crossed an open space, looking back- 

 ward nervously, and entered a clumj) of oaks. We came up on opposite sides, sur- 

 rounding and sur|)rising them once more. They evidently planned to escape by 

 skulking rather than by flight; but when we followed close upon them, even in 

 dense cover, were we electrified by a whirring sound, as one large bird shot 



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