We have never seen a bittern except along water courses. He is a solitary bird. When alarmed by the approach of someone the bird sometimes escapes recognition by standing on its short tail motionless with its bill pointing skyward, in which position, aided by its dull coloring, it personates a small snag or stump or some other growth about it. This bird has long legs, yellow green in color, which trail awkwardly behind it and serve as a sort of rudder when it flies. It has a long, crooked neck, and lengthy yellow bill edged with black. The body is variable as to size, but sometimes is said to measure thirty-four inches. The tail is short and rounded. In color this peculiar bird is yellowish brown mottled with various shades of brown above, and below buff, white and brown. It is not a skillful architect, but places its rude nest on the ground, in which may be found three to five grayish brown eggs. The habitat of the American bittern covers the whole of temperate and tropical North America, north to latitude about 60 degrees, south to Guatemala, Cuba, Jamaica and the Bermudas. It is occasionally found in Europe. Frank Forrester included the bittern among the list of his game birds, and it is asked what higher authority we can have than his. The flesh is regarded as excellent food. OUR LITTLE MARTYRS. GEORGE KLINGLE. Do we care, you and I, For the song-birds winging by, Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen, Thrill of wing of gold or green, Sapphire, crimson--gorgeous dye Lost or found across the sky, Midst the glory of the air; Birds who tenderer colors wear? What to us the free-bird's song, Breath of passion, breath of wrong; Wood-heart's orchestra, her life; Breath of love and breath of strife; Joy's fantasies; anguish breath; Cries of doubt, and cries of death? Shall we care when nesting-time Brings no birds from any clime; Not a voice or ruby wing, Not a single nest to swing Midst the reeds, or, higher up, Like a dainty fairy-cup; Not a single little friend, All the way, as footsteps wend Here and there through every clime, Not a bird at any time? Does it matter? Do we care What the feathers women wear Cost the world? Must all birds die? May they never, never fly Safely through their native air? Slaughter meets them everywhere. Scorned be the hands that touch such spoil! Let women pity and recoil From traffic barbarous and grave, And quickly strive the birds to save. LITTLE GUESTS IN FEATHERS. NELLY HART WOODWORTH. A Brooklyn naturalist who gives much time to bird-study told me that as his rooms became overfull of birds he decided to thin them out before the approach of winter. Accordingly he selected two song sparrows and turned one of them adrift, thinking to let the other go the next morning.