The lobster season had just closed, the “pots” were piled in heaps on the beaches, and mackerel fishing was now the presumable industry of the male population of Grosse Isle. But few fish were running, and each day boat after boat of glum-looking men came in from the sea with often only a few cod to show for their labor. This, however, was midsummer, and the Grosse Isle “season” was in full swing. There was a school picnic one day; on another, service was held in the little white church on the hillside; but, as I considered the deathlike quiet which, as a rule, reigned in the village, I wondered what life must be there in winter. Then the entire Magdalen group is frozen in a sea of ice, which renders communication with the mainland (except by cable, generally out of repair) impossible. When the ice breaks in the spring, seals appear and furnish a hazardous occupation to those who are venturesome enough to go in pursuit of them—a form of sport which I imagine is eagerly welcomed after the lethargy of winter. With us the Magdalens were only a stepping-stone to Bird Rock, but while preparing for the continuation of our journey to that point we took some note of our surroundings. [Illustration: 78. Nest and eggs of Fox Sparrow.] The Magdalens have an interesting avifauna, but it was now the latter half of July and the song season of most species was over. Fox Sparrows, however, were still singing, and their clear, ringing whistle came from the spruces all about. The fogs, so characteristic of the region, seemed in no way to dampen their spirits, and when the gray mists closed in thick about us their notes rang out as cheerily as though the sun shone from a blue sky. My short excursions, however, were largely made along the beaches in search of some sea waif, and for the shore birds that would soon migrate through these islands in large numbers, or to the cliffs where the Guillemots were nesting. The latter were comparative strangers to me, and I had not become accustomed to the plump, black, white-winged, little birds that sat so lightly on the water. They nest in scattered pairs, in crevices, in the face of the cliffs, where my guide, Mr. Shelbourne, a resident collector, was particularly apt at discovering them. Grosse Isle is not beyond the range of the nestrobbing small boy, and only the few Guillemots that had contrived to escape him now had young. They were feeding them on sand eels, and with bills full of their shining prey made frequent visits to their nests. The young varied in development from those as yet covered only with the scanty natal down to others half grown and with the black and white second plumage appearing beneath. They were active enough to test the temper of the most patient bird photographer, and the accompanying picture was secured only after many trials.^{79} [Illustration: 79. Young Guillemots.]