On one of those fine days so rarely allowed by J. Pluvius to April, I winged the sharpie out and slipt across the bay to Gilgo beach. A light northwest air waved the dune grass and I laid under the lea of the sand barrier watching Scoters playing in the sun-diamonded sea.

Then came a pair of PIPING PLOVER, the lady busily catching sand fleas. At intervals the male ran close to her with expanded feathers and cut off her advance by strutting in front. Then he ran to one side, bent forward slowly to the ground and kicked the sand behind him vigorously — exactly like a chicken taking a dust bath, accompanying the performance with music in a series of staccato low whistles, which synchronized more or less with foot action. A number of these little hollows were made and examined by his sweetheart but evidently none met with her approval for they both flew westward with their clear melodious pee-low call.

In voice, color and actions Piping Plovers are in harmony with their environment of shore encircled with the blue world of sea, lake and sky. In movement more sedate than the other shore birds. All they seem to ask of life is to be allowed undisturbed enjoyment of their solitude.