It is in the simple and perfect beauty of a single flower, in the unblinking gaze of
a tiny creature, in the sublime harmony of nature's symmetry, that our lives are touched
in kinship with nature's underlying order.
We revere the place of nature in the pattern of our lives. We give it space in which to be.
We invite you to share in our wonder.
Small ponds are everywhere at hand on our island, each an individual universe for us
to enjoy without intrusion. They are home to black ducks, returning each spring to nest,
rear their young, and wile away lazy summer days, puddling in the shallow waters in search
of choice bits of vegetation.
Black ducks are the commonest of all our wild ducks, and the easiest to see in rivers and
roadside ponds.
There is a timeless quality here, a tranquility that envelops us, folds us to itself in refreshment
of our spirit. There is space for us to reflect upon the place we share, with creatures unbound
by artificial circumstance and constraint.
You are free to feel and sense the magic when nature sets the surface of a dappled pond a
light in flashing fire.
The ocean shapes our island. Wind and tide come strong and fierce in the Gulf of St.
Lawrence to beat upon the sandstone shore. It crumbles easily in the teeth of a nor'east
blow, no real match for the persistent pounding it must endure.
Sea birds race before the wind, seeking shelter in the lee of bays and harbors excavated from
the rocky shore. Wind and tide are relentless sculptors, carving ever-changing contours
in the cliffside of our northern exposure, gnawing at its base until it collapses from
above to create new configurations of color and light and form.
Bank swallows make their home in burrows dug from the loose upper layer of topsoil, gathering
in colonies of a hundred and more. The sandstone cliffs are nesting grounds to seabirds of
many kinds, herring gulls, the great black-backed gull, and colonies of cormorants. These inaccessible
ledges have been home to a nesting colony for more than sixty years. Cormorants come
in two varieties, the great and the double-crested. Their population is increasing. In late summer,
old bridge pilings become a gathering place for nesting pairs in their offspring as they
prepare for the annual southward migration. Cormorants are fish-eaters, diving like torpedoes
beneath the water's surface to chase and catch their prey. Most of the fish they eat are
rough species of no commercial value. Sand dunes throw a barrier across many north-side
bays and harbors, depending for their permanence on the roots of marron grass to hold their
shifting shapes together. This is a fragile environment, easily broken down by human use,
however innocent. The sand dunes and their sandy shores are nesting places for shorebirds
and gathering places for flights of tiny wanderers as they prepare for journey southwards, where
winter cannot reach. This is home to piping plover, endangered now by man, protected here
from unwarranted intrusion so that the species may continue to exist. Half a hundred pairs
of these special creatures make their nests with us. These shores are also home to common
turn. They screech their rage at intruders who come upon their nests set casually amongst
the sand and pebbles. Their chick crouches close to ground, depending on protective camouflage
to look like just another pebble on the beach. The dunes encircle tidal ponds and estuaries
of brackish water, rich in tiny life, feeding grounds for witch and duck and greater yellow
legs stopping by in August before the southward flight. Least sandpipers dance a nervous two-step
at the water's edge. A willet arches over shallow bay to find its place at nature's
table. Short-billed dowiches are here as well, finding their own tranquil and quiet place
to search for evening meal. Great blue heron are everywhere in the shallow bays and inlets,
the most distinctive bird in our landscape, stalking the calm waters in search of gudgeon,
sickleback, and other small fish.
Some of the largest nesting colonies in North America make their summer home with us, raising
their young in secluded groves, hunting the shallows by day, returning each night at dusk
to roost among the treetops.
There is a quiet grandeur to our landscape, a soft and gentle grandeur without hard edges,
a lulling rhythm of rolling woodland hills and country roads to take you into secret
places where stands of birch and oak and other woods give shelter to the soft green carpet
of fern beneath.
The Merlin makes its home within these branches, an offspray nest high in casual condominiums
built of sticks and twigs. They were a vanishing race a decade or so ago, victims of the poisons
man would use to exert control over the environment.
Now they flourish, and in their fierce, untrammeled freedom, we can seek renewal of our own free
spirit.
This is home for red fox, secret dens deep within these private places. The mother of
these youngsters did not show herself. She hides nearby, watching, waiting, for any sign
of threat or danger as her brood takes in the morning sun.
This is home for red fox, secret dens deep within these private places. The mother of
these youngsters did not show herself.
Woods gives way to farmer's fields, a rippling sea of ox-eye daisy and fragrant red clover
moving gently under soft summer breeze. The song sparrow hunts for her young, and brown-eyed
Susan forms a golden carpet. There is incredible variety of form and color in the life of these
open spaces, and the sound of songbirds play an ever-changing melody.
This is home for red fox, secret dens deep within these private places.
Lupines are our special flower. Turning roadside
ditches into canvases of delicate hue, splashing color across hillside fields.
It is said the souls of mariners lost at sea find respite in the flight of soaring gull,
and that may well be, for there is surely grace and beauty there.
The gull is everywhere, perching in odd places, keeping vigil on everything within its sharp-eyed
view.
Summer slips into autumn gently on our island, as colors change to tones of brown and red
and yellow in a last, brave show.
The beaver stalks his winter larder, and geese come them, Canada geese, battening up for
their flight south.
Some stay with us late, even after ice and snow have locked us in their cold embrace.
Some don't seem to mind at all. The golden eye is as much at home as if these frigid
waters held the warmth of summer.
Off our shores, the ice is nursery to the harp seal in their tens of thousands. The
bleating white coats are protected now from Hunter's Club, and there for us to see and
marvel, to touch us and remind us of the harmony in nature's perfect order. We invite you to
share in our wonder.