A bird sanctuary is a suitable area of ground set aside for the birds to congregate in for shelter, food and protection, where their natural enemies are destroyed, and where neither rich nor poor dare molest them, “nor thieves break through and steal.”
Here the birds will congregate in countless numbers, especially during their migration, and hold their great annual picnic and vocal contest, which enables each to select the best sweetheart. As soon as she consents to fly in a double harness with him and he says “I will, so help me Sun, Moon and Stars,” they are off together, some for life, others for one season only. Now as soon as God’s wireless says to them “The weather is O.K. at your nesting grounds,” they join in a sort of a God-be-with-you-till-we-meet-again chorus and rise high on the evening air, and before the stars close their eyes again, these winged creatures are one thousand miles farther on, and the rising sun finds them singing on the same old perch of last year, right near their nesting place. I said evening air, because most birds migrate during the night.
The non-migratory birds will winter in this same sanctuary. Last winter, the eighth winter my sanctuary was set out, I fed over one-half bushel of wheat daily to the Bob White quail that wintered in there. As soon as spring came, these quail all left, and are now scattered over at least a two-mile area of the very best farming country, breeding on nearly every farm. And best of all, I have wheat ready to feed a bigger flock next winter.
The sanctuary plan is the only way I know of to control the two-legged cannibal, he who apparently will not allow his heart nor brain to act at all, but simply lets his murderous trigger-finger control his whole carcass. It may sound strange to the reader that I speak so harshly of this class of being, but it is personal knowledge that causes it. Being in the woods so much through life, depending as a hunter does, largely on my hearing, my ear drums have been kept exceptionally active, and up until the last few years I could almost hear a gnat-fly sneeze; the result is I have heard a whole lot of things that would have sounded better had I been totally deaf.
The pictures above of geese in flight are taken at the North Pond. Notice the evergreens in the distance which run around the pond, forming a windbreak and a shelter during storms.
The pictures above show the birds at the South Pond, with houses and tile plant in the background. These four prints give a fair idea of the kind of pictures presented in the 1,500 feet of motion picture films of geese which have been taken on the property.
One day a man came here with two or three younger fellows, including one of his own boys. After showing them around, I came to the park and called the pheasants, and three beautiful Golden Pheasants came out and just spread their gorgeous plumage. As they strutted across the green lawn, all fairly held their breath at such an eye-feast. I turned to go to the house, made a few steps and changed my mind. The boy said, “Oh father, just wouldn’t they look nice in our woods?” The father switched his cud over and said. “I’d like to see them in the woods when I had my old No. 10 shotgun.”
Years ago I stocked this township with Ring-necked pheasants, and all the power I had was “Please don’t shoot the pheasants.” A hunter got on the street car three miles north of my house, and as he quieted down he slapped his hand on his game-sack and remarked, “I’ve got five of them in here the red-headed blank-blank will never see again!” Now this man is hardly acquainted with me and I know he has nothing particular against me; only he just wanted to curse the man that had given him such a good day’s sport.