THE AMERICAN BITTERN 
(Botaurus lentiginosus.) 
Tie 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 isa 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 vand 
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, As 
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. 
