A TALK ABOUT BIRDS. 189 
Every bush a winter storehouse for the wild birds great and 
small, 
From the thrushes and the blackbirds to the tiniest wren of all. 
Patient birds that cheer the snow time with their beauty and 
their song ! 
Strange it is that human creatures have the heart to do them 
wrong. 
Yet the plundering hands are busy, busy all the sweet spring 
days. 
Gathering bloom from hawthorn hedges, by the quiet country 
ways ; 
Then, in June, of pinky blossoms many a wild rose tree they 
strip, 
And in autumn seize the berries, crimson haw and scarlet hip. 
Careless ones that spoil the hedgerows, listen to a warning 
word : 
Of its winter food, believe me, you are robbing many a bird ; 
And perchance the very song birds that, beneath a summer sky. 
Gave you pleasure with their warbling, by your thoughtlessness 
will die. 
Elizabeth W. Wood. 
Chesham, Bury, Lancashire. 
A TALK ABOUT BIRDS.* 
Much has been written about the wanton destruction of beautiful and useful 
birds for the purpose of adorning ladies’ hats and bonnets. No one can lament 
this destruction more than I do, but instead of reproaching the wearers of such 
bird-bedecked head-gear, I think it behoves us to try and spread definite in- 
formation on the subject. I believe thousands of ladies make their purchases 
at the milliner’s in ignorance of the cruelty which is exercised in order to furnish 
the supply of birds for bonnet trimmings. 
The small snow-white heron, which has, during the nesting time, a plume 
of lovely feathers growing out of its back, is ruthlessly killed whilst it has its 
young ones, as the feathers are then in the greatest perfection. Dozens — nay, 
hundreds — of men are employed in slaughtering the parent birds as they hover 
over their nests, for their maternal love is so strong that they cannot bear to fiy 
away and leave their young broods. Not only are they killed by hundreds, but 
they ate also tortured by having their wings torn off whilst still alive. Many are 
only wounded by the shots and fly away to die slowly, hearing the cries of their 
offspring, perishing miserably of hunger. 
Whenever I see the so-called “ aigrette” or osprey (which are the milliner’s 
names for the leathers of the egret or white heron) in a lady’s bonnet, I long to 
tell her how my heart aches for the sorrows of the little mother bird who died 
* The Society for the Protection of Birds has just issued this excellent “ Talk 
about Birds” as a leaflet, at I^d. per dozen, or is. per loo, post free. We 
cannot better commend it than by reprinting it here, with a strong recommenda- 
tion to our readers to obtain copies lor distribution from the lion. Secretary of 
the Society, whose address is given in the leaflet. — E d. N.N. 
