Birds of a Smoky City 



By Edward B. Clark 



The birds' true homes are in the green fields, the hedges, and the woodlands 

 of the country, and the bird-student is fortunate whose lines are cast in such 

 pleasant places throughout the entire year. The songsters, however, are not 

 utterly neglectful of their city friends. To a creature whose life is passed in 

 the freshness of the fields or in the fragrance of pine forests, there must be 

 something pitiful in the condition of him whose daily round is one of grind and 

 grime and noise. 



The realist may frown if he will, yet the city-dwelling bird-student loves to 

 think that it is some touch of tenderness that prompts the birds in spring and 

 fall to turn aside from the broader migration paths to brighten with color and 

 song the few green spots in the great bustling towns. No one who feels a desire 

 to scrape acquaintance with the songsters should be kept from the attempt by 

 the fact that he lives in a city and has few opportunities to seek the country-side. 

 During certain times of the year our cities' parks are rich in bird life and afford 

 full opportunity for study. 



My own city observations of birds have been confined largely to Chicago. 

 No place could seem less likely to be attractive to the dainty warbler or the tuneful 

 white throat than this city with its shroud of smoke and its ceaseless clatter. 

 Yet it is doubtful if many other places in the land, of like limited area, hold 

 as much bird life in the spring months as do the parks of this sooty city. 



Many journeys in fields far from civilization, and holding a dense feathered 

 population, have never succeeded in making me forget the delights and surprises 

 of my first bird-hunting trip in Lincoln Park, Chicago. Although hunting, my 

 only weapon was an opera-glass. I was but a recently added attendant to the 

 bird train, and I was skeptical of songster possibilities in a park skirted with 

 cable-car lines and thronged seven days a week with pleasure-seekers. My com- 

 panion had hunted these fields aforetime, and said that we surely should see 

 something, though I thought the outlook was as cold as the day, for this bird- 

 seeking trip was made early in March before winter had shown the least disposi- 

 tion to let go his grip. 



As a boy I had gathered some bird-lore in a sort of haphazard way, and 

 when on that March morning we neared the edge of the south pond and heard 

 a rattling cry, I exclaimed, "Kingfisher !" as quickly as did my companion. We 

 reached the shore just in time to see a belted kingfisher, the halcyon of the ancients, 

 light on a dead limb of a tree on Willow Island. The pond was ice-bound through- 

 out, and the fish beneath the glittering surface were safe from attack. The wonder 

 was how the kingfisher in this uncongenial clime could escape starvation. The 

 cold March sunlight showed his fine feathers in all their beauty. He had sunk 

 his head well down between his shoulders. It seemed to me that he must be 



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