British Bird Life. 
(149) THE BIRD WORLD. 
enumerated are not in need of protec¬ 
tion, and those that are in such need do 
not receive it, because the guardian of 
their interests is a constable who does 
not know one bird from another. 
Birds as a Rural Asset. 
The opposite extreme was suggested 
by a man who wished it were possible 
to transfer the entire armament of the 
world to the brute creation, and endow 
them with the requisite skill to use it 
against mankind. In this arrangement 
the retribution would probably not fall 
on those for whom it was designed. 
What is really needed is a determined 
effort to impress on land-owners that 
the birds are an ornament to the view 
and a valuable asset to their estates; 
and an attempt to instruct and humanise 
the boys of the national schools. If we 
spent less time on the discussion of 
what religious dogmas should be taught 
in the schools, and more money on pro¬ 
curing masters with a sane and liberal 
outlook on life, the product might be 
a little more sentient, and a little less 
savage. The Englishman who goes 
forth to kill is, unfortunately, only too 
predominant, but there is a smaller and 
more thoughtful class who love to see 
a fine bird sailing in majestic circles 
The Woodpecker. 
The Carpenter of the Woods, whose “ Tap,” 
“Tap,” on tree trunks and boughs makes 
such merry music in the Woodlands, 
round the summit of a mountain, and 
who listen, as the scholar-gipsy once did 
“ with enchanted ears 
from the dark dingles to the Nightingales.” 
And it is among these that a serious 
movement should be started in defence 
of the wild life of these beautiful 
islands. 
The Nest of the Titmouse 
There is a bird, a fairy rather, that 
conjures to such good purpose with its 
favourite building material of lichens, 
feathers, and the webs of spiders, as to 
turn out a labour of love that must be 
among the most beautiful bird homes 
in all the realm of Nature. This is the 
long-tailed Titmouse. ' Twenty years, 
says a writer, have gone since, in the 
days when, alas! life seemed longer and 
ari of less moment, I watched the build¬ 
ing of such a palace, but the other day, 
at any rate, I came upon one all but 
finished high in a blackthorn. Within 
this snug retreat the hen lays a pro¬ 
digious number of eggs, the clutch that 
we associate with partridges, and the 
wonder is that these pretty little 
creatures, which do not migrate, are not 
more plentiful later in the year when the 
leaf is off. It may be that some of the 
little eggs slip away out of reach and 
are never hatched. It may be that, in 
the struggle for existence, which begins 
ere the young are fledged, some drop 
out and die unnoticed in the hustle at 
mealtime. There must be some ex¬ 
planation of the comparative scarcity of 
a bird that should be as plentiful as it 
is prolific. If the patient watcher can 
approach the nest at daybreak with the 
noiseless Indian tread attainable only 
in “ sneakers,” and with due caution 
not to tread on snapping twigs, he may 
find the little couple at home, their long 
tails apparently (since, with the bills, 
they stick out of the tiny front door) 
tucked, squirrel-fashion, over their 
backs. 
