CHARLEY'S ^Y O N D E R F U L JOURNEYS. 



TOURNEY VIII. 



THER 

 fill 



'HERE goes another of those dread- 

 boys," said the wood thrush. 

 " I wonder how many poor birds he has 

 killed!" 



" I never killed a bird," said Charley. 



" Nor robbed a nest ? " qneried the wood 

 thrush. 



" Certainly not," replied Charley. " I 

 wouldn't do such a thing; I am a member 

 of the Audubon Society." 



" That's true, said the wood thrush, " or 

 you would not understand us. Then I 

 suppose you are going to the funeral ? " 



"Yes, I should like to go," said Charley. 

 " When does it start ? " 



" It will start directly," said the wood 

 thrush, " I see the mourners are nearly all 

 assembled. Poor little Bobolink," contin- 

 ued he, "yesterday so full of beauty and 

 life and song, to-day a headless, shattered 

 carcass, his feathers and skin stripped off 

 him to adorn the bonnet of some heartless 

 woman ! " 



In a little pine clearing in the woods the 

 birds were assembled from all the four 

 quarters of the earth, and there in the 

 midst of them on a deftly constructed 

 stretcher, tenderly pillowed with soft green 

 moss, lay all that remained of poor little 

 Bobolink. 



The birds as they arrived cast a pitying 

 glance upon the dead, and then stood aside 

 in solemn silence, leaving a clear space 

 around the stretcher. 



Presently the wild goose stepped into the 

 open space with a slow and stately tread; 

 his manner was dignified and impressive, 

 and the whole assemblage stood hushed, 

 with bowed heads. 



"We are assembled, my feathered friends," 

 he began, " to perform the last sad offices 

 for a departed brother, another victim of 

 woman's pitiless vanity and man's wanton 



lust of blood, or it may be lust of gold. 

 Stricken down in the vigor of youth and 

 health, but not until his heart had been 

 wrung by witnessing the wanton massacre 

 of his tender partner, and later the ruthless 

 robbery of his motherless young from the 

 nest, he had his share of life's sorrows. 

 He is now at rest. For us remains the sad 

 task of following the body to its final rest- 

 ing place." 



As he ceased a dead and solemn stillness 

 fell on the assembled birds. The next 

 moment the pall-bearers, four crows, raised 

 the stretcher, and at the first step the silence 

 was broken, the woodlands rang again with 

 the rich, full notes of the mockingbird as 

 he recited the requiem for the dead. He 

 told how Bobolink and his wife began their 

 courtship when they came north in the 

 spring, and how they built their nest, and 

 Mrs. Bobolink stayed at home and brooded 

 the eggs while Bobolink foraged for food, 

 and how at last when the young were 

 hatched. Mamma Bobolink had to forage 

 for them too, and how one day she had 

 been shot, and then Bobolink had to do all 

 the foraging himself, while the young ones 

 were growing every day and able to eat 

 more and more, and how, when Bobolink 

 was almost worn out, he came home one 

 day to find the nest gone. Then his heart 

 almost broke and he poured out his sorrow 

 in a wild plaintive melody which attracted 

 a gunner to the spot and cost poor Bobo- 

 link his life as the final act of the sad 

 tragedy. 



At length they reached the last resting 

 place, an open field at the edge of the 

 woods, all dotted with curious shaped little 

 mounds, with feathers stuck in them. The 

 crows deposited their burthen on a little 

 clear space, the procession broke up, and 

 all the birds gathered round. Then the 



