CHAPTER IV 



THE MIGRATION OF BIRDS 



THERE is something fascinating about the 

 word migration. It sends our minds back 

 to the dim stories of tribal movements 

 carved on the rocks by men who wrought in the 

 dawn of history. We wonder at the compelling 

 force that drove our ancestors through the forests 

 of northern Germany, or caused the Aztecs to cross 

 the Mexican deserts. It calls to something in our 

 blood, for even the most stolid must at times hearken 

 to the Pied Piper and with Kipling feel that "On 

 the other side the world we're overdue." 



Man is not alone the possessor of the migrating 



passion. Menhaden, in vast schools, sweep along 



our Atlantic Coast in their season. From unknown 



regions of the ocean herring and salmon return to 



[61] 



