Sweet voices midst the blossoms; Amidst the meadow-blooms; Midst mallow-buds and sedges; Midst flower-hearts by their looms; Through vistas of the forests, Round minaret and dome, The mists of mountain torrents; Through rainbows of the foam; Above the rush of waters; Above the swirl of seas; Through labyrinths of maremma— Ah yes, and more than these— Yet flashes out a remnant Of bird-wings on the air, Or floats the song-birds’ rhythms Midst slaughter and despair. Is there no human pity? In all the world so wide Can nothing stay the slaughter, Can nothing stem the tide Before, from Nature’s pageant, All bird-life joy is crushed; Before the wings lie broken Before the songs are hushed? —George Klingle. OFF FOR THE SOUTHLAND. The first frosts of autumn are a warning to the summer songsters that it is time to prepare for their long trip to the southland. From pine and beech and shrub they come, lingering to catch a stray insect or to feast on the seeds so plentiful at this season of the year, steadily collecting until dozens and fifties and hundreds of a kind are grouped together. Whether the smaller birds, such as the robins, blue birds and ground birds, select a leader for the trip south, it is difficult to say. Some birds do so, and follow their leaders, as the sheep of olden time followed their shepherd. However this may be, these fine-feathered travelers are careful to remain in a squad as compact as possible, and a note of alarm from one puts the whole legion to flight. All birds of short flight travel by night only, perhaps because it is a time less beset with dangers from the enemy; perhaps instinct is more in control at night, when there is naught but dreams of the southland to claim their attention. Some authorities have surmised that the birds, like the mariner, are familiar with the heavens and, taking some star or constellation as their guide, fly straight to the summerland of the world. But this last is not a safe conclusion, for the blue birds and robins have been known to err in their choice of a wintering place, some stopping in northern Georgia and perishing there because of their blunder. Others have remained in the Middle States throughout the winter, which grave error the best students of bird-nature have been unable to explain.