THE INVITATION. 227 



ened by the cold, suggests the fact that the fear of 

 man, which now seems like an instinct in the birds, is 

 evidently an acquired trait, and foreign to them in 

 a state of primitive nature. Every gunner has ob- 

 served, to his chagrin, how wild the pigeons become 

 after a few days of firing among them ; and, to his de- 

 light, how easy it is to approach near his game in new 

 or unfrequented woods. Professor Baird tells me that a 

 correspondent of theirs visited a small island in the 

 Pacific Ocean, situated about two hundred miles off 

 Cape St. Lucas, to procure specimens. The island 

 was but a few miles in extent, and had probably never 

 been visited half a dozen times by human beings. The 

 naturalist found the birds and water-fowls so tame that 

 it was but a waste of ammunition to shoot them. Fixing 

 a noose on the end of a long stick, he captured them by 

 putting it over their necks and hauling them to him. 

 In some cases not even this contrivance was needed. 

 A species of mocking-bird, in particular, larger than 

 ours, and a splendid songster, made itself so familiar 

 as to be almost a nuisance, hopping on the tabic where 

 the collector was writing, and scattering the pens and 

 paper. Eighteen species were found, twelve of them 

 peculiar to the island. 



Thoreau relates that in the woods of Maine, the 

 Canada jay will sometimes make its meal with the 

 lumbermen, taking the food out of their hands. 



Yet, notwithstanding the birds have come to look 

 upon man as their natural enemy, there can be little 

 doubt that civilization is on the whole favorable to 



