BIRDS OF THE WEST 



not for a whole cedar swamp, and he would hardly think of eat- 

 ing as much as a newly found worm until he had offered it to 

 the nearest lady. 



I wonder if the brown thrasher did not teach us how to sing, 

 the ovenbird how to teach, the vireo how to preach, the goldfinch 

 how to bathe and the turtle dove how to love? Do you suppose 

 that the wren taught the women how to scold, that the blue jay 

 taught the men how to swear and that the English sparrow taught 

 them to hang around down town? 



Now let us discard our conceit and let us give a better character 

 to the lower animals. Let us stop calling our faithful dog a pup 

 and a cur and let us be fair to the birds. The much abused lark 

 always stays at home nights and though the skylark is a high-flier, 

 the poet says that he "sings at Heaven's gate". Why, if a man were 

 a "regular nighthawk", he would retire soon after dark, for the 

 nighthawk never flies at night. The human "jay" is quite differ- 

 ent from the bird of that name for the little fellow is a swell dresser 

 and very, very wise. The stork, poor fellow ! He has some awful re- 

 sponsibilities thrust upon him. 



If a man were not so often as crazy as a loon, if he were half 

 as wise as an owl, if he only had an eye like an eagle's, were less 

 gullible and less of a cuckoo, he would not cherish prejudices that 

 lead him to kill any of our birds, for it is a very rare bird that has 

 a ledger balance in red ink. He would not repeat the hue and cry 

 against every bird that eats anything of commercial value. Of 

 course some of the birds are sinners some of the time, but "let 

 him among you that is without sin, cast the first stone". 



Just think of it! In order to get a law upon our statute 

 books to protect our song birds, it has often been necessary to per- 

 mit the killing of blackbirds. Why? Because the farmer begrudges 

 the little corn he eats. If he were to open his eyes and open also 

 a blackbird's little "tummy", he would find it full of cutworms 

 instead of corn. Of course he eats a little corn now and then, very 

 little, but he buys it and he pays for it. When he follows the 

 farmer's plow from morning till night, what do you suppose he 

 is doing? 



Gardeners, who do not know, shoot the rose-breasted gros- 

 beak whose choice of food is the potato bug. A pint of them is 

 short rations for the little fellow. Besides, he is handsome, a dear 



