The Chorus of the Forest 



is all I want. In my wanderings afield I often 

 find ornitlioloffists killing and dissectini'' birds, hot- 

 anists uprooting and classifying flowers, and lepi- The 

 dopterists running pins through moths vet strug- '^'^'^"^y 



. 1 ' and 



gling; each worl^er blind and deaf to everything song of 

 save his own si)ecialt3% and delving in that as if Existence 

 life depended, as perhaps it does, on the amount 

 of havoc and extermination wrought. Whenever 

 I come across a scientist plying his trade I am al- 

 M-ays so happy and content to be merely a nature- 

 lover, satisfied with what I can see, hear, and re- 

 cord wdth my cameras. Sucla wonders are lost by 

 specializing on one subject to the exclusion of all 

 else. No doubt it is necessary for some one to do 

 this work, but I am so glad it is not my calling. 

 Life has such varying siglits and songs for tlie one 

 who goes afield with senses alive to everything. I 

 am positive I hear and see as much as any scientist 

 can on the outside of objects, for I have recorded 

 with my cameras a complete life history of many 

 birds no one else ever photographed, and to prove 

 it I can reproduce the pictures for the deliglit of 

 humanity. Who ever was exhilarated by seeing a 

 scientist measure the intestines and count the bones 

 of any bird? I have sent the botanical masters 

 flowers and vines not yet incorporated in their 

 books, but I was very careful to confine myself to 

 the least specimen that would serve their purpose. 

 I have hatched the eggs, raised the caterpillars, 



55 



