THE OSPEEY. 



vh 



THE PASSING OF THE BLUEBIRD. 



By Chas. S. Reid. Walhalla. S. C. 



As I wander among the trees of the forests 

 and along the brooks and hedges, there is one 

 sweet Toice I miss from the sylvan chorus 

 which makes the spring day joyful with its 

 music. There, among the shrubs along the 

 brook, are my old friends, Tanagers and 

 Brown Thrushes, busily engaged in their nest- 

 ing, while ever and anon their clear, sweet 

 notes join the general woodland chorus. Yon- 

 der, on the very topmost twig of a large white 

 oak, sits the Mocking-bird, speaking to bird 

 nature in all its many langiiages. His song 

 sends a thrill of ecstacy through my being 

 which is only increased when the melody is 

 momentarily strengthened by a rare strain 

 from the throat of his cousin-german, the 

 Brown Thrush. Now, a dozen little Warblers 

 join their voices in the choral effort, and the 

 rare medley seems full, but for the absence of 

 one sweet voice — that of the Bluebird, whose 

 clear, li<iuid trill is no longer heard along the 

 hedges and fences. 



Beneath the old apple tree in the orchard, 

 where I once loved to linger, dreamily drink- 

 ing in the song of the Bluebird as it sat upon 

 the fences, ever and anon darting like a bril- 

 liant rocket into the air to catch some un- 

 wary insect which its marvelous eye had seen, 

 I linger now in vain. The voice which was once 

 the song-life of the orchard is heard no more; 

 its liquid measure only comes back to me 

 through the blessing of memory's dream, 

 faintly, like an echo, yet soothingl}-. How its 

 sweetness once thrilled me with its living 

 strength, filling my daj' dream with music, 

 sighing ])laintively when I was sad, trilling 

 blithelj" when I was joyful; soothing away my 

 sorrows with a song, and voicing my joj's in a 

 lay. 



Around the hollow of the old gate post and 

 the eaves of the barn where the ]5luebirds 

 nested, what a flutter there was at evening 

 when the fledglings began to fly — what rare 

 kaleidoscopic iignres of blue and white and 

 gray in the gold of the setting sun; while the 

 strains of many voices filled the evening at- 

 mosphere with song! 



The Bluebird was our friend; it brought its 

 song to our doorstep to fill us with cheerful- 

 ness, while it served us in many ways that 

 we knew not of. Throughout the day it would 

 sit among the shrubs of the hedge or upon 



the gate posts and fences, carefully watching 

 our gardens and fields, and freeing them 

 from thousands of insects which come to re- 

 tard the growth of, or to destroy, the young 

 shoots, buds, or fruits of our cereals and gar- 

 den vegetables. 



But an invincible enemy came from over the 

 sea, invading our fair home of the Bluebirds, 

 waging a war of extermination against them, 

 which has not ceased until now, when the 

 Bluebird is seen no more hajipily flitting here 

 and there in the sunlight, and the sweet, 

 thrilling song comes no more to our ears, 

 bringing- its measure of joy and love. The 

 place of our jioor lost Bluebirds is taken by 

 their enemy, the Engli.sh Sparrows, which, 

 throughout the day, fill our ears with their 

 unorganized chatter. The Sparrows have 

 driven the Bluebirds away from human habi- 

 taTions. far back into the forests, where they 

 have sought the dense shrubbery along the 

 streams for their home, building their nests 

 in stumps and knotholes of fallen and decay- 

 ing tree trunks. ]Iere they have met with 

 other enemies in reptiles, high waters, and 

 rigidly cold winters, which have slowly con- 

 tinued the work of extermination beg-un by 

 English Sparrows against the best friend man 

 ever had among birds. 



The Bluebirds are gone; they are almost ex- 

 tinct in the middle and central Southern 

 States, and only a few of them are left in ex- 

 treme southern portions of the States. A few 

 years ago every post seemed to be occupied 

 by a Bluebird, and the atmosphere was mel- 

 low with the music of their hap])iness. But 

 now, while I wander through the wood, de- 

 spite the efforts of the songsters to enliven 

 every metre of the air with melody, I miss 

 that one sweet voice, and deep sadness fills 

 my bosom when I reflect that the Bluebird is 

 passing forever — that in a few more years its 

 voice will be no longer heard in any portion of 

 our land, which, though so rich in all things 

 else, will then be so much poorer in the loss 

 of the beautiful, sweet-voiced lUuebird. 



[We can ooiiif<irt the author of this I:uuoiitatioii 

 l).v the assTU'Uiu-e that the case is not s'> bad a^ all 

 that. English Sparrows harass and driA'c away 

 liliiebirds, and m:in,v of them are sometimes killed 

 by stress of weather; but Sialla sialis is in no 

 present danger of extinction.— Ed.] 



NOCTURNAL MIGRATION. 



By O. G. LiBBV, Madison, Wis. 



In a recent article appearing in The OsruEV, 

 the poet Longfellow was made to appear in 

 the unwonted role of scientific observer. The 

 following stanzas from his poem on "Birds of 

 I'assage" contain the evidence for this rather 

 remarkable generalization: 



"But the night is fair, 



And everywhere 



A warm soft vapor fills the air, 



And distant sounds seem near. 



"And above, in the light 



Of the star-lit night. 



Swift birds of passage wing their flight 



Through the dewy atmosphere. 



"I hear the beat 



Of their pinions fleet. 



As from the land of snow and sleet 



They seek a southern lea." 



It must be evident to anyone not anxious 

 to prove a point that the poet is here not at- 



