IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



Over perhaps the worst foe of bird life we have 

 no control — the weather. A bad winter twelve 

 years ago killed nearly all the quail in Massa- 

 chusetts , for example . The exceptionally deep snow 

 of the winter of 191 5-1 6 also wrought great havoc 

 among the partridges and pheasants. They suffered 

 again in 19 17-18, even more, perhaps. The late 

 March blizzard which hit Berkshire in 1919 killed 

 thousands of song-sparrows, robins, bluebirds, and 

 even juncos. Storms may catch the migratory 

 birds when over the water, and destroy them by the 

 thousands. The cold, wet, late spring of 191 7, in 

 the Northeastern states, exacted a pathetic toll 

 from the warblers. These beautiful little birds, of 

 so many and bewildering varieties, are entirely 

 insectivorous and seem never to have learned how 

 to eat anything else, even in times of dire need. 

 Migrating in May over a land still too cold and 

 wet for insect life to be active, they were hard 

 pressed, and came into our gardens by the thou- 

 sands, looking for food in the newly turned earth. 

 I often had redstarts and Blackburnians hopping 

 on my very feet as I hoed or cultivated. They 

 not only died of starvation in droves, but fell, 

 through weakness, an easy prey to cats. A cat 

 belonging to a neighbor of mine was seen to kill 

 ten warblers in a single afternoon. I think if I 

 had seen it I should have killed the cat ! 



But, next to the elements, man is the birds' chief 

 foe — man, the cruelest of God's creatures. Not 

 only does he turn his cats loose to prey, and go out 

 himself with a gun to slaughter, but gradually, as 

 more and more land comes under cultivation, he is 



