Conservation Reader Part 18

[Ill.u.s.tration: _E. R. Sanborn, N. Y. Zoological Society_ A flock of wild duck.]

The most beautiful of the water birds have been so relentlessly hunted by the plume gatherers that at the time of the establishment of the refuges some of them were almost extinct and it was feared the birds would not be able to survive. But in most cases the effect of protection was magical. The bird refuges in the Southern coast islands and marshes which were almost deserted are now alive again with birds. Here we can get some idea of the wonderful richness of life before the bird hunters began their work. Even now, in spite of the watchful patrols, the hunters sometimes succeed in getting at the colonies. In order to insure full protection the refuges must be extended and more patrols employed, for such is the value of the plumes that desperate men will undergo great risks for the sake of obtaining them.

In order fully to stop this work, all those countries where plumes are in demand must forbid their sale. Only when there is no more demand can we get rid of the hunters.

In our efforts to protect bird life, we must not forget to take into account the instincts of our friend p.u.s.s.y. It hardly seems as though the quiet house cat could do much harm, but if you will watch one out of doors when the birds are around you will be convinced that p.u.s.s.y is one of the worst enemies that small birds have. Cats destroy many thousands of birds throughout the country. It is believed that they each average at least fifty birds killed every year. If you will multiply this number by the number of cats in your neighborhood, you will get some idea of the great losses among the birds due to the cats. We must choose between p.u.s.s.y and the birds.

Arbor Day and Bird Day in our schools help call to mind the claims Nature has upon us. We might celebrate them by planting trees which furnish food that the birds like, for the trees and birds go together.

How pleasant it will be when that happy time comes in which the wild creatures will cease to regard man as their worst enemy! How pleasant it will be to go out through the fields and woods and along the sh.o.r.es and find that they look upon us as friends!

THE PRECEPTOR'S PLEA FOR THE BIRDS

Plato, antic.i.p.ating the Reviewers, From his Republic banished without pity The Poets; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Committee, The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; Linnet and meadow lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worm or weevil after rain!

Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought?

Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!

Whose habitations in the treetops even Are halfway houses on the road to heaven!

Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love!

And when you think of this, remember too 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

Think of your woods and orchards without birds!

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!

Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door?

What! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the gra.s.shopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play?

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir Of meadow lark, and its sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake?

You call them thieves and pillagers; but know They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, _The Birds of Killingworth_