BIRD RESERVATIONS 

 little way to the south, on a lonely sand key, lies 

 buried Guy Bradley, who was done to death by 

 plume hunters while guarding for the Audubon 

 Society the Cuthbert Egret Rookery. On Orange 

 Lake, northward, the warden in charge still carries in 

 his body a bullet from a plume gatherer's gun. Only 

 three days before my visit Greene's nearest brother 

 warden on duty at the Alligator Bay Colony had a 

 desperate rifle battle with four poachers who, in de- 

 fiance of law and decency, attempted to shoot the 

 Egrets which he was paid to protect. 



I like to think of Greene as I saw him the last night 

 in camp, his brown, lean face aglow with interest as 

 he told me many things about the birds he guarded. 

 The next day I was to leave him, and night after 

 night he would sit by his fire, a lonely representative 

 of the Audubon Society away down there on the edge 

 of the Big Cypress, standing as best he could between 

 the lives of the birds he loved and the insatiable greed 

 of Fashion. 



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