10 
BY THE WAYSIDE 
ent—that constitutes its daily rations, 
is doing more harm than good. 
Our young bird students soon get the 
idea that our birds must pay for their 
Keep in visible $ marks, or they are 
“no good”. 
With this $ diplomacy ever upper¬ 
most in our discussion of bird life, we 
educate the young bird student to a 
standard of bird values as irrelevant 
as would be the same standard applied 
to the flowergarden or an oil painting. 
And those who have learned to value 
birds according to their penny income 
I am afraid must lose the very best 
there is in Mr. Sweet’s “old pasture 
lot.” 
“How d'ye do! How d’ye do!” 
comes the breezy voice of a brigadier 
vireo welcoming us as it were into this 
land of gypsying; and from somewhere 
beyond, among the huckleberry bushes, 
follows the meadow lark’s tantalizing, 
“T-see-you! You-can’t-see-me !' ’—How 
many copper pennies is there in this 
bird music for you? 
Apply your $ mark valuation to this: 
’So glad, so glad’! So warm, so 
warm! Sweet, sweet sweet,’ carol the 
birds, and we linger in our passage 
across the wall into the land of shift¬ 
less delights. There is so much to be 
seen and heard * * # ‘Twere a pity 
to lose even the passing note of a 
cricket. * * * ’Here-here-here! Hee- 
del-dee-del-dee’ laughs a jolly titmouse 
breaking uncermoniously into our rev¬ 
erie; and ‘Ha! ha! had I-must-have- 
my-fun-if-I-break- every- heart- in- the- 
pastu-r-r-ree! ’ joins in a rollicking 
bobolink.” What! bobolink? why 
that’s the rice-bird and according to 
the $ standard they are below par. 
To the waste basket with your “eco¬ 
nomic ornithology * ’,—your tabulations 
of seeds and bugs and creeping things. 
—your cussing and discussing, this, 
that and the other species of birds,— 
cussing my little city friend Passer - 
domesticus and recommending special 
protection for Lanins borealis the 
greedy pirate that had the baby vir- 
eoes and Indigo bunting gibeted on 
the thorn-apple tree. Give our young 
bird students a “look in” to the for¬ 
est, field and glen,—to the orchard and 
the wood lot, and with Frank Sweet 
“Listen to that exquisite trill of a 
goldfinch to his love, you know him, 
the little yellow bird gracefully tilting 
upon a mullein stalk. Bright of 
feather, his golden coat is tipped on 
wing and tail with black velvet to 
match the pretty cap upon his head. 
Wildly sweet he pours his love song, 
as he dips and rises upon the mullein 
stalks. ‘Hear me, dearie; hear me 
dearie!’ ” 
Birds are the flowers of the animal 
kingdom and they can no more be 
rightly valued by the $ marks of in¬ 
come than the pansies of our flower 
gardens,—the fragrance of the wild 
rose in the Old Pasture lot,—the deli¬ 
cate fern in the rocky glen. They are 
the bright jewels in nature’s studio, 
where color and wildness and wav- 
«/ 
wardness beckon to sleepy brains and 
“feet weary with useful plodding;” 
where recreation, rest and sweet com¬ 
munion with nature makes for the bet¬ 
terment of life—a life worth living. 
