Bird lore - Project Puffin

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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 authorities
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
(36s)
'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 pasture
ground, encircled by wisps of dead