326 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



nothing more. He knew not why, nor by whom he suffered. That 

 was all. And his blood trickled through my fingers. Only a little 

 blood, yet his life's blood — blood that had all his life kept that little 

 body warm, and on the move — climbing — climbing — climbing. 



Gradually as I watched, I saw the film of death steal over his little 

 eyes — blotting out the look of mute suffering. And so he died. I laid 

 him down and washed the blood from my hands. It seemed as if I 

 should never get it off. And Nature seemed to frown on me as the 

 murderer of her child. 



I would not mount him. No! no! If I could not give him back those 

 little drops of warm red blood, those shining little eyes, I was sure I 

 would not mock Nature by stuffing him with chaff, giving him a pair 

 of expressionless glass eyes. 



Many of my readers have mounted birds. Sister, brother, what do 

 you find in those stiff, lifeless forms, those hard, glassy eyes, that set 

 mocking stare, to admire? 



I took him out under the cottonwoods — the great cottonwoods — and 

 at the base of the largest, I buried him. And now, when I go out 

 there, to sit on the great roots that spring from the tree, and rest, I al- 

 ways think of that little bird. I picture to myself a tree, in far away 

 Canada, a tree with a little pitch-smeared opening in the bark, and 

 clinging to the pitch, here and there, a little faded, rusty feather. It is 

 the home of our little bird, the only home he ever knew. He left it at 

 Nature's bidding, to go, he knew not where, trusting solely to her 

 guidance, and never dreaming but that she would guide him safely back, 

 some sweet day. I have told all too well the fate he met far from 

 home, in a strange land. And I, who have often smilingly, even 

 proudly informed my friends that "I'm a bird lover," have given the 

 lie to my own words by deliberately taking the life of one of the most 

 interesting and confiding of all my bird acquaintances. 



I sit by his little grave and ponder thus till twilight grows into dusk, 

 and as I rise to go the rustling leaves whisper: — 



"Tread lightly here, for here 'tis said, 

 When piping winds are hushed around, 

 A small note wakes from under ground, 

 Where now his tiny bones are laid. 

 No more, in lone and leafless groves, 

 With ruffled wing and faded breast, 

 His restless, homeless, spirit roves: 

 Cone to the land where birds are blest." 



Bob White. 



