on the priceless value of the Live Bird. 33


rich background and framework of greenery in many shades, quite a

sight to behold and feast one’s eyes upon. But how about the

caterpillars, the grubs, the fly, and all the hosts of the enemy ?

Ne’er a one ! ! ! And herein is the marvel. When I go caterpillar¬

hunting in the front garden, I take with me what sixty odd years

ago was known by the homely name of a pomatum pot—what its

modern scientific name may be I do not know. In this receptacle,

I tenderly and carefully place every grub, caterpillar, fly, and other

beastie I can lay my hands on, and I forthwith set them free, un¬

harmed, amongst the flowers in the bach garden : —that is, for some

weeks, there has been a continuous stream of living creatures flow¬

ing from the front to the back—and, yet, the front garden languishes

and the back garden flourishes ! Of course there can be only one

explanation of this little phenomenon—those Live Birds again !—

but never before have I had the value of the Live Bird brought to

my own personal notice so prominently. The back garden is covered

over with wire-netting, and in it I still have a few little seed-eaters,

but not a single insectivorous bird ; yet these little waxbills and

finches keep the flowers and foliage clean ; and I must emphasize

the point that, for the most part, the geraniums in the front are

identical with those at the back ; for several dozen pots were brought

to the house, of which so many were allotted to the one garden, so

many to the other, yet those in the front have not been permitted

by the insects to continue blossoming while those at the back have

blossomed and still blossom as they like. The birds, those I now

have at any rate, while damaging some flowers, do not injure the

geraniums.


And it is not alone the small bird that is of such value ;

agricultural man has other enemies besides the grub and the fly.

How about the mouse and the vole ? and where would he be with¬

out the Kestrel and others to rule the day and the Owl to look after

and protect his interests at night, during the time when he, good

easy man, full surely is—or ought to be—lying in his bed, not too

seldom, in his stupid ignorance, abusing his midnight saviours for

making such a noise and disturbing his slumbers.


It is a red-letter day in mouse-land when a man, say in

London, sets up a garden aviary. There are cats in all the gardens



