Stopping to consider that the word itself means a "standing still" to "stare" at something, an attitude of reverence, so to speak, we see how religion in ornithology preceded the romance of it. Certain of the birds waited on the deities, or had access to their presence, in consequence of which they were set apart and protected. Sometimes they were prophets of the gods, foretelling future events with accuracy. Their flights were noted by religious devotees, who, unconsciously to themselves probably, and certainly unsuspected, by their followers, were sure to be "out" at migration times. At such times, should the birds choose a natural course past a city and be seen only after they had left it behind them, the prophet knew, in the depths of his religious being, that the gods had doomed that city. It was only when the study of birds as an actual science developed the fact that these denizens of the air depended more upon climate and necessary diet than upon the will of gruesome gods that the religion of ornithology gave place to romance. And romance is the after-dinner course of real ornithology--romance lends a fanciful touch to figures and data, and apologizes to the average student for intermissions that seem dedicated to frolic. In the universe of romance, North America has its full share. Preceding the romance was, and still is (among the native tribes), the religion of superstition. The deities foretell certain death of persons among the Eskimos by the passing of a bluejay or the croak of a raven. Our own poet, Edgar Allan Poe, was not an Eskimo, but he indulged in the well-known superstitions about the bird when he permitted the raven to perch above his door. Many of the Arctic tribes are known to protect the ominous bird to this day. The Indians of Alaska revere and even fear it, like a black spirit from the land of demons. Song and story among American aborigines are replete with bird superstition. So prominent was it that early historians made mention of it to preserve it, and students of languages are putting it into books, so that romance and legend may not pass away with our native Indians. The government itself is preserving the history of American superstition among its precious archives. Reports of the Ethnological Bureau are entertaining reading for vacation times. True, they are "heavy volumes" in some cases, but there are supplements. Were these reports placed in more school and other libraries, the inclination to read more objectionable and not half so entertaining literature would go quickly out, like a fire-proof match, without burning the fingers.