106 
OUR NATIVE BIRDS 
Uncle Sam 
Those men who shoot in the springtime, 
Boys who hunt at summer camps, 
I will gather on my flat boats, 
Land them on a sandy shore, 
In the desert of Sahara. 
They may keep their guns and cannons, 
But never even see a crow. 
The Orchard Oriole 
And at last we’re sad to mention 
That some schoolboys cause much grief : 
With their sling-shot, with their air-gun, 
With their rifles, snares, and bow, 
And with stones and sticks and missiles 
They cause many a bird despair. 
Teach them that a broken wing bone 
Hurts worse than a broken leg, — 
And we cannot call the doctor, 
Mother cannot bandage it. 
Bleeding wounds, which you have caused us, 
Pain us worse than rusty nails 
Driv’n into the feet of children, — 
And we have no balm for wounds. 
If you wound us, if you wing us, 
We must die in agony, 
Or a horrid cat will spy us 
When on bush or lawn we rest.— 
A few scattered, bloody feathers, 
