This large and beautiful Tern is the most common species we have in the vicinity of Bluefields. Its powerful beak of a bright orange hue, its pointed occipital crests of black, the pearly tint of its upper, and the satiny lustre of its under parts, constitute it a species of much beauty. In the autumn months we may frequently see this bird fishing. A quarter of a mile from the shore, off Crabpond Point, there is a reef, above which it may be seen almost every day. Quite solitary in his habits, the Crested Tern prefers to fish alone; and though sometimes two or three may be in view at once, there is no association, no accordance of movement, as in the Pelicans. High above the water, we discern a bird, the snowy whiteness of whose plumage contrasts with the blue sky; he flies rapidly round and round in a large circle, quickly flapping his wings without intermission. Suddenly, he arrests his flight, flutters his wings in rapid vibration, as he looks downwards, but in a moment proceeds as before: it was doubtless a fish near the surface, but which disappeared before he could descend. Presently he again stops short, flutters,—then bringing the elbow of the wings to a right angle, descends perpendicularly, but with a singular turning of the body, so as to present now the back, now the belly, alternately, to the observer; not, however, by a rotation, but irregularly, and as if by jerks. But his purpose is again frustrated; for on nearly reaching the surface, he recovers himself with a graceful sweep, and remounts on flagging wing. Again he circles; and again, and again stops: at length, down he swoops, disappears with a plash, and in a moment breaks, struggling, from the wave, and, as if to rise burdened with prey were difficult, flags heavily near the surface, and circling slowly round, gradually regains his former altitude. Suddenly,—as if alarmed, though nothing appears to cause it,—he utters two or three loud cries in a plaintive tone, and flies off, along the coast, until he is concealed from view by the projecting mangroves. Yet, strange to say, in a few seconds he returns, and calmly pursues his wonted occupation. When satiated, he betakes himself to some one of the logs of wood which are placed as buoys by the fishermen to mark the position of their sunken fish-pots; and on this he reposes all night, rocked to sleep by the roll of the surf. The fishermen, on visiting their pots at early day, find the Terns, exceedingly often, sitting on the buoys; and so fearless are they, that not seldom a canoe may be paddled nearly within touch of one before he will fly. Though web-footed, I believe none of the Terns are ever seen to swim. One shot and wounded in the wing made no effort to strike out, but merely struggled in the water as a land-bird would do. This specimen was brought home alive; it attempted to bite, striking with the beak. The flesh was dark, and resembled that of a Duck. EGG-BIRD.[136]