LITMIR.BIZ

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to trim hats with feathers. Fashion decrees that feathers must be worn, and presto! feathers are worn. In the second place, it is cruel to kill birds who are feeding young ones in the nest, leaving them to starvation. Yet this is just what has happened and does happen every year. Plume hunters are no respecters of times and seasons. With them there are no closed seasons. The birds which they are after gather in large rookeries during the nesting season and are therefore much easier to capture then than at other times.

      Most of the herons and similar plume-bearing birds are hunted and killed for the plumes alone, or, at most, for a very small part of the whole plumage. The part wanted is taken and the rest left to waste, while the bird's body is never used for anything. If nothing worse, it is an unpardonable waste. In Florida alone whole rookeries of herons and ibises numbering hundreds and even thousands of individuals have been wholly destroyed. Now the insatiable plume hunter, in his effort to supply the demands of a no less insatiable fashion, is pursuing the unfortunate birds into the fastnesses of Mexico and South America. There is but one way to stop this work of extermination, and that is to take away the demand. This remedy lies wholly in the hands of women. Unless they are willing to take a firm stand against the use of feathers for purposes of ornament the birds are doomed. This may seem like a strong statement, but a little reflection will prove it true. When the birds which are now hunted for plumes and feathers are gone, there will be a modification of the demand to include birds of different plumage, just as the aigrette is giving place to the quill. After the quill and the long-pointed wing will come the shorter wing, and after that the plumage of the small birds, and the cycle of destruction will be complete.

      Some one may ask why it is that the birds are so foolish as to allow the hunter to kill hundreds in a single day from one rookery. Why don't they leave the region when the shooting begins? The plume hunter has learned cunning. He no longer uses a shot gun, but a small caliber rifle or a wholly noiseless air gun. The rifle makes no more noise than the snapping of a twig, and will therefore not frighten the birds. By remaining concealed the hunter may kill every bird that is within range. Since each bird is worth from twenty-five cents to five dollars, according to the kind, a single day's work (or slaughter) is profitable. The temptation is certainly great, and becomes almost irresistible to him who loves hunting for its own sake.

      The most cruel part of the whole business I have already stated, but it will bear repeating. It is the killing of the breeding birds before the young are able to care for themselves. There is abundant evidence that the breeding time is the favorite time for hunting among plume hunters, because then the old birds are more easy to kill, and because then the plumage is the most perfect, for then the wedding garments are put on.

      It should not be an impossible task to stop this whole cruel business. But laws will not do it without a wholesome public sentiment behind it. Women are notably foremost in all good works, and many of them are doing nobly in this work, but it is painfully evident that many are not. Let us make "a long pull and a strong pull and a pull all together," and then we shall drag this growing evil back and down forever.

Lynds Jones.

      THE FALL MIGRATIONS

      A rush of wings through the darkening night,

      A sweep through the air in the distant height.

      Far off we hear them, cry answering cry:

      'Tis the voice of the birds as they southward fly.

      From sea to sea, as if marking the time,

      Comes the beat of wings from the long, dark line.

      O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic beat,

      Flying from cold to the summertime heat;

      O, keen, glancing eye, that can see so far,

      Do you guide your flight by the northern star?

      The birds from the North are crossing the moon,

      And the southland knows they are coming soon.

      With gladness and freedom and music gone,

      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.

      THE WAYS OF SOME BANTAMS

      Last summer, when I was out in the country, I made the acquaintance of a kind-hearted little bantam rooster, who was as funny as he was kind-hearted.

      An old speckled hen, who looked as if she might be a good mother, but wasn't, had brought up a family of chickens to that stage where their legs had grown long and their down all turned to pin-feathers.

      Very ugly they were; there was no doubt of it. Perhaps this queer mother thought so. At any rate, she turned the poor things adrift and pecked them cruelly whenever they came near her.

      Little "Banty" saw this unkind behavior. He was small, but his heart was big, and he set Madam Speckle an example which ought to have made her hide her head in the darkest corner of the hen-house for shame.

      He adopted those chickens!

      Each one of them was about half the size of "Banty," and to see that loving little father-bird standing on tiptoe with his wings spread, trying in vain to cover all eight of his adopted children, was a pathetic as well as a ludicrous sight.

      They loved him and believed in him fully. They followed him all day long, and seemed to see nothing amusing when he choked down a crow to cluck over the food he found for them, and at night they quarreled over the privilege of being nearest to him.

      I think bantams perhaps are more interesting than other fowls. When I was a little girl father brought three of them home. Dandy and his two little wives were all pure white and very small.

      We had other fowls, the aristocratic Spanish kind, each as large as two or three of Dandy, and the Spanish rooster hinted very strongly that Dandy's presence in that barnyard could be dispensed with. But Dandy was a brave little fighter, and he soon settled it once for all with Grandee as to what the rights of the former and his family were.

      In a month or so one of the little hens was missing. After a long time we found her, and in such a queer, cozy place! Upon the foundations of the old red farmhouse where we lived, rested great squared beams. An end of one of these beams had decayed, out of sight, under the clapboards on the south side of the house, until there was a large, soft-lined hollow. Here the little hen had stolen her nest, and when we found her she was just ready to lead off twenty-one tiny white fluff-balls of chickens, every egg having hatched.

      Dandy's bravery saved his little life one day, and made him forever famous in the annals of our pets. On this most eventful day of his life, a shadow flitted over the barnyard, and a wail went up from us children as a chicken-hawk swooped down upon our beloved Dandy and carried him off before our indignant and tearful eyes.

      Up they went! But in a moment or two we saw that the thief was having trouble, as somehow Dandy had managed to turn in those wicked talons, and the little fellow was using his sharp beak and spurs with all his might.

      The battle was brief, and then Dandy dropped at our feet. He was bleeding and had lost the sight of one of his eyes, but otherwise he was little hurt. All the rest of his days Dandy carried himself proudly, as one who has been tried as a hero and not found wanting.

May H. Prentice.

      THE BUFFLE-HEAD

(Charitonetta albeola.)

      This small and wonderfully beautiful duck is a native

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