untimely, disastrous, because it is reaped at the sowing time of life. Every egret killed for its plumes is killed when it is helpless through its blind, natural love for its offspring, and when its death means the death of all its helpless young. Does the wholesale man know this? Does he care? Does anybody know or care? Is it not the one thing to be remembered, that my lady must have her plumes? White - they are white, these plumes. It is mockery. They should be the blackest sable, and they should stain black the white fingers that caress them.

But Thomas Jones cannot stop to argue. The next day he pushes quietly into the edge of the nesting ground. He ties his boat firmly within easy range of the tall snag he saw the day before. He takes out his rifle - the .22 shot will make no noise, and it will serve his purpose perfectly. There is an egret on the tall snag. Taking a steady aim, Thomas Jones fires, and the bird whirls down dead. One or two other birds start on their perches in the same tree, but settle back. One by one they, too, whirl out and lie in a white tangled mass at the foot of the tree. An egret raises herself up above the rim of the nest on which she sits, and the tiny bullet pierces her. She whirls down, lying white and motionless. The little ones gape and cry, but no food comes. The father was killed on the tree near by. One by one, out of the nests, off from the limbs of the trees, here, there, anywhere for the birds are all about, and so stupid with the breeding fever that they will not leave the slender white birds meet their doom. That tall snag has yielded twenty victims. Thomas Jones has not moved from his boat. He has over two hundred birds down. He can

tell by his cartridge boxes, for he rarely misses a shot. It is easy shooting.

After noon Thomas Jones goes out and gathers up his spoils. A cut of the knife and the clump of plumes is off. The carcass of the egret is left lying. Two hundred carcasses of egrets are left lying. That many more tomorrow. Many more than that the next day, for by that time the wailing of the dying young of the first day's victims will have ceased. From then on, day by day, increasing in three-fold ratio, the harvest of death goes on, steadily, pitilessly, on the sowing grounds of life, out in the silent wilderness where the birds have tried to hide their homes.

In less than a month it is over. The long white lines no longer cross the country going to and from the feeding grounds. The white forms no longer appear on the naked trees. Doubly naked the forest stands in silent desolation. Sodden and discolored, the once white forms below the trees are sinking into the slime. From beneath the trees and from the nests up in the trees a great stench goes up. Not a bird, young or old, is left alive. The old ones stayed till death came, bound by the great instinct of nature to remain with their young.

Jones, a little yellower, but not sick, for he is a healthy man, packs up his feathers carefully and hies him to the railway for a swift and secret journey out of the country. He wonders where he can find another roost next year. Behind him is desolation.

Reprinted by permission, National Association of Audubon Societies.

Word Study.

HELPS TO STUDY

pli'ant easily bent.

e'greta species of heron.

bar bar'ic resembling uncivilized people.

me trop'o lis the chief city of a country, state, etc.

tech'ni cal ly speaking- using the language of any special trade or science.

ca ress'

car'cass

standing by itself, secluded.

to treat with tokens of affection.

a corpse, the dead body of an animal.

vic'tim - one injured or destroyed in the pursuit of some object

or by accident.

Describe egret plumes.

What is an

Notes and Questions. egret roost? When are the plumes in their prime condition? Tell how the hunter secures the plumes. Why is it wrong to kill the egrets in the nesting season? Why do the birds not leave the nesting ground when the hunter appears? Describe the appearance of the nesting ground the second day of the hunter's attack. What is the condition of it at the end of a month? Why does the hunter wonder where he can find another roost next year? How can we help to prevent the shooting of the egrets?

THE PLEASANT LAND OF FRANCE

"The pleasant land of France" -so it is called, and it is well named. It is indeed a beautiful country, the fields tilled like gardens, the roadsides lined with beautiful and shapely trees, the small areas in forest given almost as much attention as our cultivated fields, the houses neat and well kept, the fields dotted with busy and seemingly prosperous workers.

The farming districts are a delight to the eye, as well as an unending source of pleasure to any one who delights in intelligent and well-directed industry. The red-tiled roofs of the stone and brick houses, the gold of the harvest fields, the dark green of the growing crops cultivated alongside, interspersed with slender and stately trees - all this makes a picture whose beauty is entirely unmarred by one gully or galled spot or weedy patch or shackly cabin or "turned out" field.

This land I see before me here was probably in cultivation for centuries before the first white man alarmed the stolid American Indian on his hunting grounds, and has made crops ever since — and yet no one thinks of saying that this French soil is "worn out" or "needs resting." With intelligent labor and prudent handling this land, a thousand years in use, is still highly productive.

And the main secret? It is here before me nowthese great herds of grazing cattle in the fields alongside the growing crops, and these farmers with three-horse teams preparing the land for a new crop, rolling it and