454 Bird -Lore 



press, especially the newspapers of Omaha, in spreading the propaganda. For 

 over two years and a half, the Omaha World Herald, aside from feature stories 

 on the subject, has carried an editorial every Sunday, touching in the most 

 interesting and intimate way some phase of bird-life. These editorials are from 

 the gifted pen of Miles Greenleaf. Mr. Greenleaf is the most earnest and con- 

 servative bird-student, concerned in, and never faihng to present, the economic 

 value of our birds, but he presents his subject in a manner to attract the 

 attention and bring the message home. He gives one the flash of color, the 

 note of melody, and the fresh atmosphere of God's good out-of-doors. The 

 following editorial of his, printed in the early summer, called forth scores of 

 inquiries from potato-growers about their unknown friend, the Rose-breasted 

 Grosbeak. 



"THE DISAPPOINTED GROSBEAK 



"He came one morning, with the glorious rose of his breast fairly sparkling in the 

 sunshine and the black and white of his fashionable raiment setting off this adornment 

 as a priceless ruby, perfectly mounted. 



"It was a modest city garden that he chose for his hunting grounds this day, and there 

 were potatoes in it, which he noted with approval, being of a Hooversque turn of mind 

 and in favor of conservation. The potatoes themselves did not interest him gastronom- 

 ically, but he doubtless reasoned that office gardeners in palm-beaches were not likely to 

 seriously impair their health in modern methods of cultivation, and that his old friend, 

 the potato bug, would be there in force. 



"After surveying the promising prospect in something the manner that we inspect 

 a comprehensive menu, this Rose-breasted Grosbeak swooped daintily down and began 

 his foray. Diligently he prowled that potato patch — diUgently and painstakingly and 

 with unswerving attention to business. Up one row and down another he hopped and 

 flew, and finally swooped to a fence-post and swore. If ever so beautiful a bird creature 

 swore, this one did — and vehemently. 



" 'Well, may I be bHstered if this don't beat all — get out!' he fumed, partly to himself. 

 'Not a single, bloody, yellow-backed striped son of a sea cook in sight? What do you 

 known about that?' 



"He had something to blaspheme about, too, for potato bugs are strangely scarce 

 game in these parts this year, and potato bugs are the Grosbeak's favorite dish. Many a 

 crop of spuds have been saved from these pests by this splendid bird, a fact which should 

 interest Nebraskans, now that this has blossomed out as a potato state. 



"But this particular Grosbeak ripped around awhile and then decided that if he 

 couldn't have potato bugs he would try some other delicacy in season, and all day long 

 he worked in that garden; he only knows how many thousand insects he removed from 

 this citizen's ripening crop, if he kept count, which is doubtful. And in the evening he 

 offered thanks with deep-throated melodious warble which completely defies all human 

 instruments, and flew away, his gun over his shoulder, so to speak. 



"Anyone who hasn't the proper appreciation of birds' service to mankind would do 

 well to spend a few hours in a garden at this season. He should count the number of 

 bugs and worms and things that these feathered foragers consume in a brief space of 

 time, and then wish he had that many dollars so he could retire and have a private car 

 and a winter home in southern California and live happily ever after." 



— (Miss) Joy Montgomery Higgins, Secretary. 



