88 Birds of Lakeside and Prairie 



vive the demands of fashion for which the word cruel is far 

 too feeble an adjective. 



I wandered one late May day through the music-filled 

 fields of Worth. My destination was the Phillips farm, which 

 lies about a mile from the depot. The orioles were whistling 

 wherever a treetop offered a swaying perch. The meadows 

 were literally filled with singing bobolinks. I passed a little 

 country school-house; the children were singing the opening 

 song of the morning. On the ridge-pole above them was 

 perched a black-throated bunting, who was adding his mite 

 of music to swell the chorus. A little farther on I made the 

 acquaintance, that morning, of the grasshopper sparrow. It 

 is a tiny field-loving bird, with a song which much resembles 

 the sound made by the insect for which it is named. One of 

 the sparrows took perch on a slender weed which its weight 

 was not sufficient to bend, and there gave me a sample of its 

 vocal power, though, perhaps, I might better say vocal weak- 

 ness. It will not do, however, to despise the grasshopper 

 sparrow's song, for some day when greed has caused the 

 killing of all the larger birds we may turn for enjoyment to 

 this humble little feathered rustic. 



On either side of the Phillips farmhouse there is an orchard, 

 while hedges that do duty as fences extend in all directions. 

 On that May morning at the end of the porch there were four 

 wild rose bushes in full bloom A syringa, with its burden 

 of white blossoms, flanked the line of roses. In the syringa 

 bush a catbird was singing, and strangely enough, he forgot 

 to throw into the midst of his melody the harsh note that so 

 often mars his performance. I stood for a minute enjoying 

 the bloom of the roses and the song of the bird. The singer 

 left the discordant element out of its song, to be sure, but 



