THE AMERICAN BITTERN 



(Botaurus lentiginosus.) 



THIS curious bird has several lo 

 cal names. It is called the 

 "stake-driver," "booming bit 

 tern," and "thunder-pumper," 

 in consequence of its peculiar cry. It 

 was once thought that this noise was 

 made by using a hollow reed, but the 

 peculiar tone is possibly due to the 

 odd shaped neck of the bird. Gibson 

 says you hear of the stake-driver but 

 can not find his "stake." 



We have never seen a bittern except 

 along water courses. He is a solitary 

 bird. When alarmed by the approach 

 of someone the bird sometimes escapes 

 recognition by standing on its short 

 tail motionless with its bill pointing 

 skyward, in which position, aided by its 

 dull coloring, it personates a small 

 snag or stump or some other growth 

 about it. 



This bird has long legs, yellow green 

 in color, which trail awkwardly behind 

 it and serve as a sort of rudder when it 



flies. It has a long, crooked neck, and 

 lengthy yellow bill edged with black. 

 The body is variable as to size, but 

 sometimes is said to measure thirty- 

 four inches. The tail is short and 

 rounded. In color this peculiar bird 

 is yellowish brown mottled with vari 

 ous shades of brown above, and below 

 buff, white and brown. 



It is not a skillful architect, but 

 places its rude nest on the ground, in 

 which' may be found three to five gray 

 ish brown eggs. 



The habitat of the American bittern 

 covers the whole of temperate and 

 tropical North America, north to lati 

 tude about 60 degrees, south to Guate 

 mala, Cuba, Jamaica and the Bermudas. 

 It is occasionally found in Europe. 



Frank Forrester included the bittern 

 among the list of his game birds, and 

 it is asked what higher authority we 

 can have than his. The flesh is re 

 garded as excellent food. 



OUR LITTLE MARTYRS. 



GEORGE KLINGLE. 



Do we care, you and I, 

 For the song-birds winging by, 

 Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen, 

 Thrill of wing of gold or green, 

 Sapphire, crimson gorgeous dye 

 Lost or found across the sky, 

 Midst the glory of the air; 

 Birds who tenderer colors wear? 



What to us the free-bird's song, 

 Breath of passion, breath of wrong; 

 Wood-heart's orchestra, her life; 

 Breath of love and breath of strife; 

 Joy's fantasies; anguish breath; 

 Cries of doubt, and cries of death? 



Shall we care when nesting-time 

 Brings no birds from any clime; 

 Not a voice or ruby wing, 

 Not a single nest to swing 



Midst the reeds, or, higher up, 



Like a dainty fairy-cup; 



Not a single little friend, 



All the way, as footsteps wend 



Here and there through every clime, 



Not a bird at any time? 



Does it matter? Do we care 

 What the feathers women wear 

 Cost the world? Must all birds die? 

 May they never, never fly 

 Safely through their native air? 

 Slaughter meets them everywhere. 



Scorned be the hands that touch such 



spoil! 



Let women pity and recoil 

 From traffic barbarous and grave, 

 And quickly strive the birds to save. 



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