Another migration is passing on.
No long, dark lines o'er the face of the moon;
No dip of wings in the southern lagoon.
No sweet, low titter, no welcoming song;
These are birds of silence that sweep along.
Lifeless and stiff, with the death mark on it,
This "Fall Migration" on hat and bonnet.
And the crowd goes by, with so few to care
For this march of death of the "fowls of the air."
—Mary Drummond, in the Chicago Times-Herald.