/IDs Minter 0ar5en 



yet knew of one that died of old age, never 

 killed one that, when dissected, appeared 

 in the least affected with senile decay. I 

 do not say that birds never die of old age 

 — domesticated birds certainly do ; and it 

 may be all right for men of science to 

 make eyes at me when I do roundly deny 

 the existence of any evidence, worth seri- 

 ous attention, tending to prove that wild 

 birds, in their natural habitat, with plenty 

 of their natural food to eat, ever die, save 

 when stricken by disease or accident. 



Breaking away from a fascinating ques- 

 tion like this of bird immortality — a ques- 

 tion to which I am bound sometime to 

 return with plenty of facts to uphold my 

 theory — reminds me that the time for 

 northward migration is at hand. This 

 morning there was a redoubled clamor of 

 voices circulating through the garden tree- 

 tops, and a fresh rustle of wings round 

 about. I awoke with a longing softly astir 

 in my blood, while in my nostrils the far-off 

 spring fragrance of the Wabash country 

 and of the banks of Rock River made me 

 understand that winter was no more. A 

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