KILLDEER 
TFYOU 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. Killdee, killdee, 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 per- 
secution 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 welcome of hot 
shot, the survivors learn their first lesson in 
shyness. Some killdeer, however, are hatched 
in the United States. No sportsman worthy 
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 
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