151 



is within range. Since each bird is worth 

 from twenty-five cents to five dollars, ac- 

 cording to the kind, a single day's work 

 (or slaughter) is profitable. The temp- 

 tation is certainly great, and becomes al- 

 most irresistible to him who love^ hunt- 

 ing for its own sake. 



The most cruel part of the whole busi- 

 ness I have already stated, but it will bear 

 repeating. It is the killing of the breed- 

 ing birds before the young are able to 

 care for themselves. There is abundant 

 evidence that the breeding time is the fa- 

 vorite time for hunting among plume 

 hunters, because then the old birds are 



more easy to kill, and because then the 

 plumage is the most perfect, for then the 

 wedding garments are put on. 



It should not be an impossible task to 

 stop this whole cruel business. But laws 

 will not do it without a wholesome public 

 sentiment behind it. Women are nota- 

 bly foremost in all good works, and many 

 of them are doing nobly in this work, but 

 it is painfully evident that many are not. 

 Let us make "a long pull and a strong 

 pull and a pull all together," and then we 

 shall drag this growing evil back and 

 down forever. Lynds Jones. 



THE FALL MIGRATIONS. 



A rush of wings through the darkening night, 

 A sweep through the air in the distant height. 



Far ofif we hear them, cry answering cry : 



'Tis the voice of the birds as they southward fly. 



From sea to sea, as if marking the time. 



Comes the beat of wings from the long, dark line. 



O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic beat, 

 Flying from cold to the summertime heat ; 



O, keen, glancing eye, that can see so far, 



Do you guide your flight by the northern star? 



The birds from the North are crossing the moon. 

 And the southland knows they are coming soon. 



With gladness and freedom and music gone. 

 Another migration is passing on. 



No long, dark lines o'er the face of the moon ; 

 No dip of wings in the southern lagoon. 



No sweet, low titter, no welcoming song; 

 These are birds of silence that sweep along. 



Lifeless and stiff, with the death mark on it. 

 This "Fall Migration" on hat and bonnet. 



And the crowd goes by, with so few to care 



For this march of death of the "fowls of the air." 



— Mary Drummond, in the Chicago Times-Herald. 



