TWELVE WINTER BIRDS. 259 



or a chipmunk. No feeling of sorrow ever enters 

 their minds as they gaze into the eyes of some cruelly 

 wounded bird or animal and see the life force, which 

 they can never recall, slowly ebbing away. The 

 woodpeckers, in particular, suffer from their heedless 

 shooting. Hundreds of them are daily shot down 

 and left where they fall, for the sole purpose of show- 

 ing the hunter's skill in marksmanship, or to satisfy 

 that craving desire to kill objects below him in the 

 scale of life which blinds him to every feeling of pity, 

 every sense of remorse. 



To those who have been accustomed to pass the 

 cold season in the city, exempt for months from the 

 pure, bracing, country air, I would say : Go forth and 

 study nature on some sunny day in mid-winter. You 

 will not find the woods full of thrushes, warblers and 

 other songsters ready on every hand to greet you. 

 They are effeminate birds, joyous only in the presence 

 of plenty of blue sky and sunshine, and Jack Frost 

 has long since driven them to seek a sunny, southern 

 clime where food is more plentiful than here. But 

 you will find their rugged cousin, the zebra bird, 

 clinging to the side of a dead stub and deriving pure 

 inspiration therefrom. You will see him fluff his 

 feathers about his bare toes to keep them warm while 

 he makes the woods reverberate with his cheery 

 call and from him, if you are wise, you may learn a 

 lesson of happiness and contentment. 



