214 BIRDS 



If you don't know the little killdeer plover, it is surely 

 not his fault, for he is a noisy sentinel, always ready, night 

 or day, to tell you his name. Kildee, kUdee, he calls with 

 his high voice when alarmed — and he is usually beset by 

 fears, real or imaginary — but when at peace, his voice is 

 sweet and low. Much persecution from gunners has made 

 the naturally gentle birds of the shore and marshes rather 

 shy and wild. Most plovers nest in the arctic regions, 

 where man and his wicked ways are unknown. When the 

 young birds reach our land of liberty, and receive a wel- 

 come of hot shot, the survivors learn their first lesson in 

 shyness. Some killdeer, however, are hatched in the 

 United States. No sportsman worthy of the name would 

 waste shot on a bird not larger than a robin; one, moreover, 

 with musky flesh; yet I have seen scores of killdeer strung 

 over the backs of gunners in tide-water Virginia. Their 

 larger cousins, the black-breasted, the piping, the golden 

 and Wilson's plovers, who travel from the tundras of the 

 far North to South America and back again every year, 

 have now become rare because too much cooked along 

 their long route. You can usually tell a flock of plovers 

 in flight by the crescent shape of the rapidly moving 

 mass. 



With a busy company of friends, the killdeer haunts 

 broad tracts of grassy land, near water, uplands or low- 

 lands, or marshy meadows beside the sea. Scattered over 

 a chosen feeding ground, the plovers run about nimbly, 

 quickly, daintily, nervously, looking for trouble as well as 

 food. Because worms, which are their favorite supper, 

 come out of the ground at nightfall, the birds are especially 

 active then. Gras^oppers, crickets, and other insects 

 content them during the day. 



