A Plea for Our Birds. 



Alas ! he was called to die much sooner 

 than the bird-oracle had declared, and with- 

 out religious preparation ! 



In ornithology there is a genus of cuckoos, 

 and therefore numerous species or kinds. 

 All have not the same melodious, plaintive 

 voice, the soft Jwoho-Jw, and another sound 

 uttered while on the wing, like a low trill 



on a flute, probably the call for the mate. 

 The " Honey Guide " of Africa is a cuckoo 

 — cucidus. One poet calls the cry of the 

 English cuckoo "a wandering voice, seem- 

 ing to float hither and thither." The fe- 

 male bird seems rather selfish; she lays 

 her eggs in some other bird's nest, leaving 

 them to be hatched by a stranger. 



Emily Thacher Bennett. 



A PLEA FOR OUR BIRDS. 



IN the summer of i8 — , my home, for a 

 few weeks, was at a farmer's house 

 among the hills of northern Massachusetts. 

 My favorite retreat, when I could quietly 

 read, write or work, was in a grove a short 

 distance from the house. Taking my camp 

 chair, I could then, "fancy free," do what- 

 ever I wished without intrusion or disturb- 

 ance. The native songsters of the woods, 

 regardless of my quiet presence, made the 

 air vocal with their sweet melody, while the 

 shy squirrels and gentle rabbits would often 

 venture from their hiding places to pick up 

 the crumbs and nuts with which I supplied 

 myself for their benefit. 



Below me, for it was on a hillside where 

 my cosy Jiook was situated, murmured a 

 silver brook through a green meadow 

 where a few native elms spread their grace- 

 ful branches, among which the bolder and 

 sun-loving birds built their nests and 

 warbled their songs. 



A more restful retreat for a tired body 

 and mind could not often be found. The 

 morning hours of a week had been thus de- 

 lightfully spent with pen, book and needle, 

 enjoying the carols of the sweet vocalists, 

 and making acquaintance of the furry in- 

 habitants of my charming grove. 



But alas, one morning as I seated my- 

 self on my throne, for I felt like a rural 

 queen over my undisputed realm, I was 

 welcomed by no tones of musical welcome 

 from my subjects. Not one of my four- 



footed friends came forth to partake of the 

 bountiful feast I had scattered around me. 

 Grieved at being thus forsaken, I looked 

 around to rind an answer to the question. 

 What has happened ? I soon discovered 

 the solution, for emerging from the grove 

 I saw a man with a gun over his shoulder, 

 and a basket in his hand, containing, I had 

 reason to believe, the lifeless remains of 

 many of the harmless birds which the day 

 previous had furnished the music for my 

 woodland orchestra. Just then he raised 

 his gun and discharged it, and from the 

 branches of an elm in the meadow, fell 

 fluttering to the ground a golden oriole. 

 He threw it, still alive, into his basket, 

 there to die a lingering death. He then 

 stalked away too far from me to listen to 

 any remonstrances, which would probably 

 have been wholly unheeded had he heard 

 them. 



I took my book and work and walked 

 away, my kingdom having lost its charms. 

 As I slowly sauntered through the grove, 

 meditating sadly on this wanton, cruel 

 sport, I heard low cries of distress proceed- 

 ing from a nest which I had often watched 

 as the patient mother robin sat on it, or 

 flew off to bring food for her brood. On 

 examination I found four tiny birds 

 motherless and hungry, their mother being, 

 I supposed, in the basket of the ruthless 

 gunner, destined to ornament the bonnet 

 of some woman, the mother, perhaps, of lit- 



