56 The Passenger Pigeon 



When squabs of a nesting became fit for market, 

 these experts, prepared with climbers, would get into 

 some convenient place in a tree-top loaded with nests, 

 and with a long pole punch out the young, which would 

 fall with a thud like lead on the ground. 



In May, 1880, I visited the last known nesting 

 place east of the Great Lakes. It was on Piatt River 

 in Benzie County, Mich. There were on these 

 grounds many large white birch trees filled with nests. 

 These trees have manifold bark, which, when old, hangs 

 in shreds like rags or flowing moss, along their trunks 

 and limbs. This bark will burn like paper soaked in 

 oil. Here, for the first time, I saw with shame and pity 

 a new mode for robbing these birds' nests, which I look 

 upon as being devilish. These outlaws to all moral 

 sense would touch a lighted match to the bark of the 

 trees at the base, when with a flash — more like an explo- 

 sion — the blast would reach every limb of the tree, and 

 while the affrighted young birds would leap simultane- 

 ously to the ground, the parent birds, with plumage 

 scorched, would rise high in air amid flame and smoke. 

 I noticed that many of these squabs were so fat and 

 clumsy they would burst open on striking the ground. 

 Several thousand were obtained during the day by this 

 cruel process. 



That night I stayed with an old man on the highlands 

 just north of the nesting. In the course of the evening 

 I explained to him the cruelty that was being shown to 



