Summary

Birds Illustrated by Color Photography Vol… (1898)

How can he be a bird lover who, after rifling some carefully tended nest, pierces the two ends of one of these exquisite crusts of winged melody, and murderously blows one more atom of wings and song into nothingness? The inanimate shell, however lovely in color, what is it? It is not an egg; an egg comprehends the contents, the life within. Aside from the worthlessness of such a possession, each egg purloined means we know not what depth of grief to the parent, and a lost bird life; a vacuum where song should be.
Source: Wikisource

Birds Illustrated by Color Photography Vol… (1898)

No, indeed, I am always very happy when I sing. My mate wouldn't notice me at all if I didn't pour out my feelings in song, both day and night. That is the only way I have to tell her that I love her, and to ask her if she loves me. When she says "yes," then we go to housekeeping, build a nest and bring up a family of little Nightingales. As soon as the birdies come out of their shell I literally change my tune.
In place of the lovely music which everybody admires, I utter only a croak, expressive of my alarm and anxiety. Nobody knows the trouble of bringing up a family better than I do.
Source: Wikisource

Birds Illustrated by Color Photography Vol… (1898)

Like those birds, it is nocturnal, its principal feeding time being from near sunset until daylight. In procuring its food it wades into the water, immerses its immense bill in the soft mud, with the head, and even the whole neck, beneath the surface, moving its partially opened mouth to and fro, munching the small fry—insects or shell-fish—before it swallows them. Where many are together, one usually acts as a sentinel.
Source: Wikisource

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