MARTYRS OF THE WOODS.
Would we miss them, you and I,
Would we care if soon should die
Every single singing bird
You and I have ever heard?
Would we miss them from the grass,
Through the tangled, deep morass;
From the bushes and the trees—
Robin, wren and chickadees—
Birds of blue and crimson wing;
Would we miss the notes they sing;
Would we miss the call and cry;
Chattering talk as we go by;
Nests amid the reeds and grass,
Nests swung high above the pass?
Do we care that birds must die,
Slaughtered daily as they fly?
Men will kill while people choose
Wings of birds to buy and use;
Soon the woods must quiet be;
Scarce a bird for minstrelsy.
—George Klingle.