It takes little imagination for the listener to "the exultant Sandpiper, wild, awing," to call the performer "the Sand Skylark." Music among northern races runs to minor strains and our Sandpiper is no exception. On bowed quivering wings the love-intoxicated bird swings aloft in circles, voicing a series of rapid sweet trills.

While anchored under one of the White Islands in Bay St. Lawrence, I listened to the wild, tremulous songs which sang the day to rest, and watched the little exquisites — mere points of black against the clear amber June evening sky. Even my dorymate, Flanagan, fell under the spell of that evening's beauty. . . . . Song, birds, sky and sea.

"Are they skylarks?"

"No, — Sandpipers."

"Them little leprechans that skitter along the sand?"

"The same."

"Well, I'll be damned!" (But that wasn't what he meant).

There was a time in humanity's history when it was considered "fun" to shoot into a flock of "peeps" just to see how many dropt. That time has gone by except where a particularly cruel specimen still does it. This bit of flesh, no bigger than one's thumb, is no longer on the "game bird" list.