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THE OOLOGIST 



into circulation which were held in 

 higher esteem by the real scientists of 

 the country. 



Mr. Wood was unexcelled in his 

 preparation and his datas were with- 

 out question works of real art. We 

 have a number of such in our personal 

 collection upon which hours must have 

 been spent in decorating them with 

 the pen. It is a sorrow to know that 

 we must sometime part with such as 

 he whom we hold as friends. 



In the fall of 1884, already being in- 

 terested in natural history and already 

 having started a boy's collection of 

 birds' eggs, he answered an advertise- 

 ment by Frank H. Lattin of Albion, 

 New York, who then was advertising 

 birds eggs for sale, and who then was 

 publishing the first year of THE 

 OOLOGIST, then called the "Young 

 Oologist." From the date of the re- 

 ceipt by Mr. Wood of an answer to 

 that letter, the end blown eggs so 

 far as he was concerned, were dis- 

 carded, and he started to build up a 

 collection scientifically arranged and 

 prepared. At one time this reached 

 the aggregate of something like 8,000 

 specimens. Later a large part of it 

 was disposed of. 



In business, Mr. Wood was a sur- 

 veyoi* by profession, and he was a 

 bird man by natural inclination. A 

 large number of the contributions from 

 his pen appeared from time to time in 

 THE OOLOGIST, and it is a pleasure 

 to be able to present in this issue the 

 last contribution made to the col- 

 umns of the little journal that he read 

 and loved so long, with this notice of 

 his going into an unknown beyond. 



The following poetic contribution 

 was only recently received from Mr. 

 Wood, and is without doubt the last 

 penned by him for publication any- 

 where, which gives it a sentimental 

 value in addition to its literary merit. 



The Egg Crank's View of Spring. 

 (J. Claire Wood.) 

 And now comes the spring poet 



A loaded up with verse. 

 That sets some people wishing 



He was planted in a hearse; 

 But a fellow can take his pencil, 



And escape the charge of crime, 

 When he can not write poetry — 



Just ordinary rhyme. 

 But wd admire the spring poet, 



And know just how he feels. 

 And can not believe what people tell us 



About his head chucked full of 

 wheels ; 

 For if he's gone plumb crazy. 



We should feel most mighty bltie, 

 For then, to a dead certainty 



We've gone plumb crazy too. 

 For everywhere about us 



We see the signs of spring 

 A new warmth in the sunshine 



And the wild geese on the wing; 

 And from the corn stalk stubble 



Comes the whistle of the quail, 

 And a bluebird is a warbling 



From his perch upon a rail. 

 And from the distant woodlands 



Comes the partridge's muffled drum 

 And about the sunlit place 



The bees begin to hum 

 And we see the gentle farmer 



with a gun upon his back. 

 And hear him jawing at the crows, 



And the crows a jawing back 

 But it is the wary Red-tail 



Away up in the sky 

 That sets our pulse a throbbing 



As we hear his well known cry 

 For it brings a flood of memories 



Of times down in the woods 

 When we went and sort of borrowed 



His stock of household goods 

 Spy boys! get out your egg tools 



And blow off the winter dust 

 And sharpen up the climbers 



And polish off the rust 

 For the hawks are all a breeding 



Just where they did last year 



