quisitely moulded shapes, and by a crescent of pure white on the forehead, sharply defined in the jetty black of the rest of the crown. They are delicate pearly-blue above, with snowy-white under-plumage, that has an indescribably soft and silky lustre ; the long-pointed outer primaries, that cleave the air so deftly, are black, silvered with a hoary gloss of exceeding delicacy; the bill is bright yellow, tipped with black; the feet are of the same color, and are likewise tipped with the black claws. The little bird of our country answering to this description, has a variety of names in and out of the books. In many places it is called "Striker," from the way it has—after hovering in the air, its slender bill pointed straight downward, its clear eyes intently surveying the water below, and at length fixing upon some unlucky shrimp or minnow-of dashing impetuously down to secure its prey beneath the water; and just possibly, its scientific name, Sterna, as well as the English derivative, Stern, or Tern, may be traced to a classic root (seen in sterno, "to strew or scatter," and also "to throw down") and have its origin in this same habit. A more apt and elegant designation is that of "Sea-swallow," by which this and other species are universally known. They are all, indeed, swallows of the sea, replacing over the waters those familiar birds of the land, and having many features in common. Popular language has, as usual, caught the idea of these striking points of resemblance, and caged it in an expressive word. Even the written history of this bird's names is not devoid of interest; for a study of the various words unfolds a story of human thought. Thus our forefathers in ornithology called the bird the Least Tern (Sterna minuta), because they did not know it was different from the European species of that name; but it is, nevertheless, for the pearl-blue extends over the tail instead of being confined to the back and wings, and the size of the bill, and of the white crescent, are not the same in the two species. Nuttall gives it as the Silvery Tern (S. argentea); a pretty name, and one very suitable,

but founded upon the wrong premise, that our species is the same as one that lives in South America. When Dr. Gambel found out that it was different from both these species, he bestowed upon it the title of the Bridled Tern (S. frenata), another very distinctive name, that would be well applied, were it not for the fact that M. Lesson, a French ornithologist, had previously called it the Antillean Tern (S. antillarum), because it is found in those islands in the winter. So we have no choice in the matter of a scientific name, in which there is not the same license as in the case of our common designations. But let the latter be as various as they may the little bird is always the same. It spends the winter in Central America and about its islands; when spring opens it courses northward to visit us; a few extend along the Pacific Coast, some up the Mississippi and its tribuaries, almost to their very sources; and more along the shores of the Atlantic. Some of the latter go as far as New England, but there are attractions all along, and detachments drop off by the way, stopping here and there, till the ranks are fairly decimated before the most adventurous birds make their final halt. But "their tricks and their manners" are pretty much the same under all circumstances, and what these are we shall presently see.

A very different bird is Wilson's Plover; a wader, not a swimmer; as they say, in words as long as the bird's legs, a grallatorial, not a natatorial, species; which simply means that the little bird is content to run along the sand and dabble with bill and feet, in the wavelets, instead of boldly dashing in among the breakers, like a Tern, for instance. It belongs to a genus well-named Ægialitis, which signifies a "dweller by the sea," and has never been known to forfeit its right to the name. We have several other species of the same group. The commonest and most widely diffused of these is the "Killdeer," that everybody knows throughout the length and breadth of the land; the Ring Plover and Piping Plover are two others, familiar to all New England

ers.

Wilson's is characteristic of the South Atlantic coast; it only incidentally, as it were, strays northward as far as Massachusetts, and is, consequently, the least generally known of the four kinds; but once seen it can never be mistaken afterward. It is smaller than the Killdeer, but larger than either the Ring-necked or the Piping Plover, to which it is very similar in coloration, if not in the precise tint. The under parts of all three are white; the upper parts of Wilson's are much darker than those of the Piping, and yet a trifle lighter than those of the Ring Plover. A collar of pure black crosses the white of the breast; a crescent of black occupies the crown between the eyes, separated from the bill by the white forehead; on the nape and sides of the head the grayish brown merges into a clear warm buff. This, it must be remembered, is only the nuptial plumage, and of the male bird; the latter, at other seasons, and the female at all times, have these black bands replaced by buffy brown; and this is the plumage in which the bird is oftenest described. But the greatest peculiarity remains to be noticed. Wilson's Plover has a very large entirely black bill, while both the Ring and the Piping have a very small bill, orange yellow at the base, tipped with black. For the rest it wants the bright-colored circle around the eyes, formed by the margin of the lids, that the other species display during the breeding season. Its eyes are clear brown; its legs livid flesh colored, and longer than those of the others; it is not half-webbed like the Ring Plover-only about as much so as the Piping. Its large black bill gives it a singular expression, and undoubtedly corresponds to some difference in the nature of its food, if we could only find out exactly what. Such is the bird that hurries along the coast from the South in April. Upon their arrival they gather in small flocks, of from half a dozen to a score or more, and ramble over both the clean sea-beach and the muddy flats in search of food, sometimes straying into the adjoining saltmeadows if the grass be short and scanty enough not to

impede their way. They are naturally gentle and confiding birds, thinking no evil, and prone to take others to be as peaceable and harmless as themselves; but they have only too often to learn wisdom by saddest experience of broken limbs and maimed bodies, and to oppose treachery by wariness and caution. In the spring, if not at other times, they have a note that is half a whistle, half a chirrup, and sounds very different from the clear mellow piping of either of their nearest relatives. After a little while spent in recuperating their energies after their long flight, in putting on their perfect dress, in sham fights and ardent pursuits along the strand, more pressing duties call them from the water's edge to the recesses of the sand-hills. There we shall find them "at home," no longer in flocks but in pairs, and keeping house with the Sea-swallows.

The spot is indicated by the fleecy cloud of the Terns flecking the air overhead. We toil on over beds of loose dry sand, in which our feet sink and slip backward, and gain the recess among the mounds. The ground is here more firm and even; the wind has swept it clean of superfluous sand, and piled up the sweepings here and there in odd nooks; the rains have packed it tight and washed every shell and pebble clean. The most careful housekeeper in the world could make her home no more tidy than the wind and rain have made this shelly dwelling-place of the Terns and Plovers. As we walk on, we see that other visitors have been before us, each one leaving its "card" engraven on the fine sand. Here goes a curious track straight up and over a sand hillock, as if half a dozen little animals had ran a race one after the other, on stilts, the points of which pricked into the sand and formed a band of indentations four or five inches broad. These are the footprints of only one creature, however, the sand-crab, a curious little fellow, with a square body, and eyes upon the ends of two poles that stick straight out when wanted for use, and shut into the shell like the blades of a pocket-knife, when their owner goes to

sleep,-a singular crab indeed, mounted upon a wonderfully. long set of eight legs (to say nothing of two claw-nippers), all of which he contrives to move at just the right moment, as if he were playing a tune upon piano keys, and so plays himself sidewise over the sand with marvellous ease and celerity, the only wonder is that he does not forget a leg in his haste. He is a very grallatorial crab, and lives in the holes in the sand we see all about, just like a prairie-dog. There is a tortuous trail along the sand, where a watersnake, perhaps a Nerodia sipedon, crawled out of his pool in the marsh beyond, to enjoy the sun's rays, or possibly on an egging expedition like ourselves. Here is a fainter line, straight as an arrow, looking just as if a pencil had been drawn along a ruler's edge; it is the mark left by the long slender tail of the little striped lizard, and if we look closely we shall see it bounded on either side by a succession of faint dots where the creature's toes barely disturbed the grains of sand. There again is a curious track, a pair of rounded depressions, side by side, and hardly more than an inch apart, outside of which, in the intermediate distances, are another pair, wider apart, and much longer. It is clear that a Marsh Rabbit has passed this way, planting his fore-feet straight downward, and drawing his hinder ones leisurely after, half squatting at each step, as he loped out of his home in the bushes to nip the beach grass for a change of diet. And so we might go on reading signs as plain as print; but the birds are by this time alarmed as they never were by former visitors. They know by intuition that we are not one of them, though among them, and that our coming bodes no good, however much we may affect to care for them in an abstract way. So in a moment all is changed, and confusion reigns where were peace and quiet. The quick-witted Terns were the first to sound the alarm; they had watched our approach, and straightway changed their heedless and joyous cries to notes of anger and fear; at the signal the sitting birds had arisen from their eggs and