THE WILD PIGEON. 



(Columba lima.) 

 BY WILLIAM BRUCE LEFFINGWELL. 



'T takes no prophetic eye to look into the 

 future, and, as all wise men judge it, by 

 the past, to see that the greed of the 

 human race will eventually wipe from 

 the face of the earth the wild game of 

 the fields, the fowls of the air. 



While I have written many articles 

 on subjects pertaining to field sports, 

 never have I written one wherein the 

 spirit of sadness pervaded the innermost recesses of my 

 heart as does this one of " The Wild Pigeon." As a 

 child, I was bred and reared among them; the gigantic 

 oaks and hickories that threw their umbrageous shades 

 o'er the roof of my home, were frequently the roosting- 

 places of these now extinct birds, while the trees of the 

 forests, beneath whose branches I passed so many of the 

 summer hours in my boyhood, were enlivened by the 

 sparkling colors of the pigeons as they sat in thick 

 bunches basking in the sunshine, or teetered and cooed 

 on the dead limbs of the trees over my head; then, again, 

 I have often stood in the farm-yard, gazing in rapt 

 admiration, as the setting sun was darkened by the 

 traveling flocks, while flock after flock seemed to dissolve 

 and extend into endless space, for while the darkness of 

 night hid them from my view, the fluttering of their 

 strong wings could long be heard after the day had 



(21T) 



