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DURING the last year I have received quite a number of letters from all over the United States, inquiring why so few birds are found about the homes, among the ornamental shrubs and trees, and in the orchard. My correspondents also wish to know how our beautiful native songsters can be induced to take up their residence in the neighborhood of man. As the many inquiries came from the East, the West, the North, and the South, I shall treat the subject in the following manner: |
The sweet notes of the Veery, the thundering sounds of the Ruffed Grouse, the loud hammering of the Pileated Woodpecker, are no longer heard. I have devoted much time to erecting bird houses and planting ornamental trees and shrubs for the accommodation of the birds. Here they soon took up their residences. On the top of the barn and granary Martin boxes were placed, and in the gables of the barn holes were cut to admit the pretty Barn Swallow and the Phoebe. Among the first birds to settle were the Robins and Bluebirds, both heralds of spring, appearing in the last days of March or early in April from their winter homes in our Southern States. The Baltimore Oriole suspended its beautiful hanging nest from a high horizontal branch of a Walnut tree. The Cedar Bird, quiet and retired in its habits, and a most beautiful denizen of the garden, placed its nest constructed of sheep's wool on a low horizontal branch of an Oak. The sprightly Canary-like song of the American Goldfinch, often called the Wild Canary, was heard throughout the summer, and its cozy little nest, lined warmly with thistle-down, was placed in the upright exterior branches of a Sugar Maple. In the same tree, but lower down on a horizontal branch the exquisite pendulous nest of the Red-eyed Vireo was now and then found. This Vireo is an incessant songster as it gleans among the upper branches of the trees. |
GOLDENROD.
SPRING is the morning of the year,
And Summer is the noontide bright;
The Autumn is the evening clear
That comes before the Winter's night.
And in the evening, everywhere
Along the roadside, up and down,
I see the golden torches flare
Like lighted street-lamps in the town.
I think the Butterfly and Bee,
From distant meadows coming back,
Are quite contented when they see
These lamps along the homeward track.
But those who stay too late get lost
For when the darkness falls about,
Down every lighted street the frost
Will go and put the torches out!
Frank Dempster Sherman.