BIRD DESTRUCTION.
BY JOS. M. WADE.
Twenty to thirty years ago, it was not an unusual sight to see even the scarlet tanager, a bright red bird with black wings and tail, flitting from tree to tree in the heart of our cities like a fiery meteor in the sun-light, and to find their nests, built very lightly of straws and similar material on the horizontal limbs of our shade trees. But they were killed or driven off long before the advent of bird millinery as a fashion. They were, indeed, a “shining mark,” and every body wanted a specimen, or thought they did, until at the present time the scarlet tanager is really a very rare bird throughout the New England States.
The Baltimore oriole, so named because the colors of the bird, black and yellow, resembled those of Lord Baltimore, has almost met the same fate, as it has done duty in ornamenting thousands of ladies’ bonnets within the past five years. Four years ago this bird was quite plenty on the elms of Boston and suburbs. The hanging nests, made of hemp, old twine, etc., were quite common. But the past season showed a great change. These birds have been shot so ruthlessly, both while here and at the South, and during the migration, that hardly a pair could be found during the breeding season of 1886.
Scientific American.
ORNITHOLOGY.
For The Hawkeye O. and O. THE WOOD THRUSH.
COMPOSED BY JAMES B. PURDY.
The wood thrush is singing from the depth of the glen,
His clear, bell-like music, so pleasing to me
In the fair month of May, when all nature looks gay;
They vie with each other from briar and tree.
In a deep shaded nook, where the woodbine twine,
And the dark gloomy forest conceals them from view;
By a clear, winding brooklet, o’er tangled with vines.
His dear mate is guarding her treasures of blue.
Though dark be the weather and gloomy the morn,
And all other birds in the forest are still,
And the sad face of Nature, all dreary, forlorn,
His clear, mellow notes through the dripping woods thrill.
In the evening, when nature is seeking repose,
And his dear little mate has repaired to her nest,
And the last golden sunbeams are kissing the rose,
It is then that his song is the sweetest and best.
Oh, then man why repine, be downcast on your way.
As through the long years you are journeying on;
For the sadder the morning and gloomier the day,
The happier and sweeter is the wood thrushe’s song.