Peete Ae D OU BOgNy BeU LD Ear N dD 
breeding bird census now being conducted by Mr. Milton Thompson of the 
Illinois State Museum, Centennial Building, Springfield, Illinois. All that 
is needed is a simple statement regarding the approximate location of the 
dove nest, the dates on which it was observed, the number of young, and 
the date on which the young left the nest (if known). Similar reports will 
be needed next September, also. It is not too late to make your studies 
and send in your reports now. 
This information should be sent to Mr. Thompson at the above address; 
he will forward his figures to the Conservation Department, and we will 
be happy to report the results here as well. We appeal to all members 
who have knowledge of nesting Mourning Doves to take part in this im- 
portant project. 
4835 Wabansia Ave., Chicago 39 
Correction, Please! 
Your EpIToR HASTENS to correct a serious error that slipped into his 
editorial on “Death of the Dove Bill” in the June issue of the Audubon 
Bulletin. The statement was made that Mourning Doves consume “count- 
less insects.” The dove is a great eater of weed seeds, including the ob- 
noxious ragweed, whose pollen causes hay fever. But doves simply do not 
eat insects. Dr. Thomas G. Scott, of the Illinois Natural History Survey, 
reports that examinations of the contents of hundreds of dove stomachs 
reveal dozens of different weed seeds — but negligible animal matter. 
Ed. Note: One point that we do not make, and have not attempted to 
make, is that Mourning Doves should not be hunted because they are 
in danger of extinction. This year, in fact, doves seem to be near the 
peak of their population cycle; we have never seen more doves than 
we have noticed in the suburbs of Chicago this fall. However, the 
present state of abundance still does not prevent us from being 
strongly moved by the poem that follows: 
The Mourning Dove Pleads His Cause 
By EMELINE ENNIS KOTULA 
Speak for me! You, who profess to love me. 
You, who have warmed to ventriloquous notes 
From distant woods at dawn. Give me your votes. 
You, who have marked my nest, if nest it be, 
And banded nestlings still too young to fiy; 
You, who’ve paused at a river’s stony brink 
And humbly watched wild doves that came to drink: 
It’s time to read the writing in the sky. 
Speak for me, that my days may yet be long 
Upon the earth, and wide the waiting skies 
To welcome wings still egg-wrapped, and to prize 
The solemn tenderness of my love song. 
Speak! You, who know what man’s indifference brings, 
Before I, too, am doomed to silent wing's. 
2949 S. Union Ave., Chicago 16 
