Brewster on Terns of the New England Coast . 19 
rage, protest, and despair. The effect was indescribable. As the 
graceful birds came whirling down in perfect silence, they seemed 
like dread avengers seeking to bear away their dead comrade and 
to overwhelm his destroyer. If another bird were killed, the 
tumult continued and the excitement became even more intense ; 
but if no further molestation were offered, they gradually departed 
one by one. This habit of hovering over their slain companions, 
though undoubtedly prompted by sympathy and social affection, is 
a most unfortunate one, as it is constantly taken advantage of, and 
dozens are frequently killed at a time. 
Upon Muskegat the Terns have, or had at the time of which I 
write, another enemy, which, though second in importance to man, 
nevertheless destroyed large numbers of these birds. This was the 
Short-eared Owl ( Brachyotus palustris). A small colony of these 
birds had established itself upon a certain elevated part of the 
island, spending the day in a tract of densely matted grass. Scat- 
tered about in this retreat were the remains of at least a hundred 
Terns, that they had killed and eaten. Many of these were fresh, 
while others were in every stage of decomposition, or dried by the sun 
and wind. In each case the breast had been picked clean, but in 
no instance was any other portion disturbed. Every day, at a cer- 
tain time, these Owls sallied forth in search of fresh prey. We used 
regularly to see them about sunset, sailing in circles over the island 
or beating along the crests of the sand-hills. They were invariably 
followed by vast mobs of enraged Terns, which dived angrily down 
over the spot where the Owl had alighted, or strung out in the wake 
of his flight like the tail of a comet. The Owl commonly paid little 
attention to this unbidden following, and apparently never tried to 
seize his persecutors while on the wing, but on several occasions we 
saw a sitting bird pounced upon and borne off. Sometimes in th.e 
middle of the night a great outcry among the Terns told where a 
tragedy was being enacted. 
I found the Terns sadly diminished in numbers when I last 
visited Muskegat, in July, 1874. Their persecutors were ravishing 
their stronghold more relentlessly than ever, and nearly every day 
fishermen came from far and near to collect their eggs. So cleanly 
had they swept the island that we could find scarcely a nest with 
eggs, and at that comparatively late date not a single young bird 
was to be seen. In fact, the poor Terns were kept laying like hens 
through the whole summer. We were told by the fishermen that 
