Do we care, you and I, For the songbirds 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 fantasias, 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? For birds must die; Not a clime where they may fly Safely through their native air; Slaughter meets them everywhere. Scorned be hands that touch such spoil! Let women pity, and recoil From traffic, barbarous and grave, And quickly strive the birds to save. —George Klingle. A CARGO OF STOWAWAYS. “Birds of ocean and of air Hither in a troop repair.” —Aristophanes’ “The Birds.” Passing out of the golden sunrise into a world of blue sky and the blue waters of Lake Huron, we regretfully assured ourselves that save for the shadowy gray and white gulls that followed in the wake of our steamer in search of a breakfast, there would be for us no bird reviews so dear to the heart of the ornithologist in a strange country, or not at least until we should have reached the far distant islands in the picturesque River Sault Ste. Mary, so with the inertia of the blank waters about us we prepared to be content, but in this instance, as in many others, we were to learn that conclusions are by no means conclusive, and it was with joy that we could exclaim with Aristophanes: “But hark! the rushing sound of rushing wings Approaches us,”