body. Yesterday it was a waxwing crushed to 
death and left on the grass; to-day a headless 
songsparrow, bruised and bleeding! They were 
buried with the robin under the evergreens, 
where, within the last five years, have been 
buried one hundred and twenty-five of our Pine 
Hills birds. 
What is happening in the trees at night! 
Robin’s twilight song is full of happy trust, but 
darkness does not protect. A stealthy step creeps 
to the nest. The mother bird awakens. Two 
gleaming eyes are near her. A rush of softly 
padded feet, a frightened cry and all is over. 
Morning comes. An empty nest only remains to 
tell the story of the once happy home in the tree. 
These are only a few of every day occurrences. 
Think of the hundreds of beautiful wings and 
singing throats sacrificed. 
“Could ye but see the bright wings torn 
From birds alive and bleeding, 
And note their quivering agony, 
I had no need for pleading. 
The wingless form left in the dust — 
Its deathly pain and terror, 
Would wake in every human heart 
A bitter sense of error. 
Ten thousand thousand little birds 
In cruel ways a-dying, 
Have heard with breaking mother hearts 
Their hungry nestlings crying. 
The nestlings starve, and God’s command 
Has been unheard and broken, 
For He who made the universe 
In their behalf hath spoken.” 
With so many favoring conditions we should 
have a hundred birds where now we have but 
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