151 



is within range. Since each bird is worth more easy to kill, and because then the 



from twenty-five cents to five dollars, ac- plumage is the most perfect, for then the 



cording to the kind, a single day's work wedding garments are put on. 

 (or slaughter) is profitable. The temp- It should not be an impossible task to 



tation is certainly great, and becomes al- stop this whole cruel business. But laws 



most irresistible to him who loves hunt- will not do it without a wholesome public 



ing for its own sake. sentiment behind it. Women are nota- 



The most cruel part of the whole busi- bly foremost in all good works, and many 



ness I have already stated, but it will bear of them are doing nobly in this work, but 



repeating. It is the killing of the breed- it is painfully evident that many are not. 



ing birds before the young are able to Let us make "a long pull and a strong 



care for themselves. There is abundant pull and a pull all together," and then we 



evidence that the breeding time is the fa- shall drag this growing evil back and 



vorite time for hunting among plume down forever. Lynds Jones, 



hunters, because then the old birds are 



THE FALL MIGRATIONS. 



A rush of wings through the darkening night, 

 A sw r eep through the air in the distant height. 



Far off 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. 



