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THE OOLOGIST 



Armed with "Ingersoll's Bird-nesting," 

 Fast in bird lore I did grow, 



Led along tlie way of knowledge. 

 By "Birds ol! Ontario." 



I have never been to college, 



It is a fact that I regret, 

 For I would like to have the knowledge 



You from learned professors get. 



Now on path of true direction. 

 Along which all oologists go. 



Soon I scrapped my old collection, 

 Sad it was, a deed of woe. 



Since those days of happy roaming, 

 Tlirough that grand old eastern wo"d, 



Far to westward I've been raving. 

 Seeking where the rainbow stood. 



I have taken many bird's eggs, 

 Rare to science, hard to get, 



And I have my eye on prizes. 

 Which I hope to gather yet. 



But now my hair is tinged with silver, 

 I do not have that youthful zest. 



With which a young and green oologist 

 Once did take his first good nest. 



So now wlien good rare nests are found. 

 While some little youngster climbs 

 the trees, 



I like to sit upon the ground. 



And while he sweats, recline at ease. 



I like to hear him growl and grumble, 

 To tell how once I thought it fine, 



And hope and pray he will not tumble. 

 Before those precious eggs are mine. 



And now my brothers, good oologists, 

 I hope you'll all find Great Auks' 

 nests. 



Sometime on far enchanted islet. 

 In the islands of the blest. 



A. D. Henderson, 

 Belvedere, Alberta, Canada. 



REFLECTIONS AFTER 

 CLIMB 



HARD 



I'm not now the nimble climber, 



That I was in days of yore. 

 When I did my first bird nesting, 



By Lake Simcoe's beauteous shore. 



Tlien my limbs were lithe and limber, 



I was just a growing boy. 

 And wandering througli that fine old 

 timber, 



Was my pleasure and my joy. 



Then I'd scale the highest tree-top. 

 For a' nest of common crow. 



In these days of happy memory, 

 Back in old Ontario. 



Then I'd climb the loftiest branches, 



Of those stately hardwood trees, 

 Eut now I dare not take such chances, 

 'Twculd make me tremble at the knees. 



Ort I think with fond affection, 

 Of those happy boyhood days. 



When I made my first collection, 

 Named in ways that would amaze. 



End blown eggs of great crow black- 

 bird. 



Were a treasure in those days; 

 Eggs of jenny-wren and graybird. 



Hell-divers from the reedy bays. 



I took eggs of the highholer. 

 Beautiful with pink and pearl. 



Like lovely blooms of roses, fragrant, 

 Seen on cheek of pretty girl. 



I remember my deep sorrow, 

 As I watched that lustre fade, 



When each egg was slowly emptied. 

 Through the ragged hole I made. 



Then one day a fellow showed me. 

 How to blow them from the side. 



With the neat and perfect circle. 

 That you can so easily hide. 



Told me of a nature dealer, 



Who would send a catalogue fine; 



Of drill and blowpipe, hook and 

 tweezer, 

 Books to make my knowledge shine 



