a few days before. Still he was 

 observant and seemed to be looking 

 for stray food that would warm him 

 up. We had some fresh crackers in 

 our pocket, which we broke into fine 

 fragments, and scattered, withdrawing 

 several yards away. To our surprise, 

 not only the Robin but several Nut- 

 hatches, some Brown Creepers, a 

 number of English Sparrows, three or 

 four Bluejays, and a gray Squirrel, 

 (from whence he came I could not 

 conceive, there being no large tree 

 near in which he might have had a 

 winter home) came with great prompt- 

 itude to feed on the unexpected offer- 

 ing. Others, no doubt, have had this 

 experience. Does it not suggest that 

 the birds which remain with us the 

 whole year round — finding, of course, 

 during the spring, summer, and fall, 

 sufficient for their wants, — should be 

 looked after a little bit, if only that 

 they may be permitted to escape 

 from the sometime unusually severe 

 storms of winter ? Nature has 

 provided them with ample feathery 

 protection from her ordinary moods, 

 but when she breaks out in icy blasts 

 and snow that covers the very face of 

 her they suffer and they perish. 



But April, with its weather un- 

 certainties — although it has long been 

 said and believed that its showers bring 

 May flowers — with its disappoint- 

 ments to all those who wish that the 

 balm of mild breezes would come — 

 longed for by the invalid and the 

 convalescent, the lover of nature who 

 would go forth to visit her and to 

 court her, April seems a sort of hum- 

 bug. And is May much better ? How 

 many days, "so calm, so sweet, so 

 bright, the bridal of the earth and 

 sky," come in May ? A few do come, 

 and we remember them. But, as 

 Lowell says, perfect days are rare, even 

 in June, when, if ever, come " perfect 



days." We think that Lowell never- 

 theless lived a little too far north to 

 entitle him to state, even poetically, 

 that perfect days are only to be enjoyed 

 in June. Had he, with the writer, 

 lived in southern Ohio, on the Little 

 Miami river, and gone fishing in the 

 month of May, he would, we think, 

 have changed his mind. Or had he 

 read the little less than perfect poem 

 of W. H. Venable, which, it may be, 

 however, was written later than the 

 verses of our, many think, greatest 

 poet, "June on the Miami," he might 

 have put aside his books and his 

 criticisms and his philosophy, and 

 sought out the beautiful river of 

 western history — then the sweetest 

 stream that flowed in America, and 

 even now, notwithstanding the giant 

 sycamores have largely disappeared 

 and the waters of the river have greatly 

 diminished in volume, leaving only 

 holes and ripples, — and modified his 

 views of days perfect only in June. 

 There were perfect days in May on the 

 Miami. There were perfect days on 

 all the streams that made it. The 

 birds were multitudinous; they sang in 

 chorus ; they were, indeed, almost 

 infinite in number — for the naturalist 

 and the collector were unknown — the 

 birds were natural residents, without 

 fear of man, building their nests close 

 to his habitations. A year or two ago 

 we stopped off the cars in May in 

 order to recall, if possible, in the 

 shadow of a few remaining trees 

 at a familiar place on the vanishing 

 river, in the expected voices of the 

 well known native birds, the delight- 

 ful far-gone years. Verily we had our 

 reward, but it was not satisfactory. It 

 seems to us we should do our best, 

 through legislation and personal 

 influence to protect and multiply the 

 birds. 



— C. C. Marble. 



