ECHOES OF A VANISHING HOST.

Forest and Bird, Issue 16, 1 November 1928, Page 14

ECHOES OF A VANISHING HOST.

(By Alexander Sprunt, Junr.)

A low, though distinct murmur, hushed by distance, but ever growing into a louder hum, sinking, rising, in an increasing monotone, came across the still air. It vibrated steadily, rose and fell in growing tones, its wavering cadence as uninterrupted now as the voice of the restless surf. Rapidly it mounted higher, developing into a moaning roar, pervading the whole expectant stretch of field and stream. The children glanced at each other wonderingly, and moved, half fearfully, toward the house. As though some giant cataclysm was about to occur, the roar deepened and grew in volume until the very air seemed to tremble, when, over the tree tops, appeared a swiftly rolling dark mass, its outer edges broken into thin streamers, which opened and closed as though a thousand individual particles were being hurled about by the violent momentum of the central body.

The man’s face lighted; he broke into a run. “The pigeons, mother,” he shouted, “they are back again.” Suddenly the light of the afternoon sky faded —twilight, almost darkness closed over the clearing as the forefront of the mighty mass passed over the cabin. The children, huddled together, glanced upward in fearful wonder as the rolling billows swept over them. It seemed as if the roar of a mighty storm was convulsing the countryside. Rank after rank, a vast company of hurrying birds, beating the air with a million wings, dipped toward the farther woods, their wide spread phalanx shutting the sky from view.

Company after company settled into the woods, lighting on the swaying trees until their groaning branches could stand no more. Sharp cracks resounded through the uproar, the swishing crash of falling limbs passed unheeded as they poured their living freight to the ground, covering them with a mass of twigs and swirling leaves. Whole trees swayed, bent and collapsed to the forest floor, crushing hundreds of the fluttering birds into the earth. Band after band circled overhead, dropping in, now rising to swirl about each other in indescribable confusion over the swarming multitudes in the trees below, while lower still, on and under the litter Which covered the ground, were bleeding bodies, broken wings, and a thousand trickling streams of red.

Pandemonium reigned as the larger part of the host moved ever forward overhead, to fill the trees for miles around with members of its stupendous company. Little by little, the uproar grew less, the roar sunk into a troubled murmur, died down, flared up again as the splintering crashes echoing among the

forest aisles bespoke more birds hurled downwards to their deaths, and, at length, true darkness came, casting a dusky curtain over the whole wild scene. The laden trees grew quiet, the fluttering, broken bodies on the ground were stilled. And on the face of the man who still watched from the edge of the clearing was a look of wonder, not unmixed with awe.

The passenger pigeon once inhabited a large range. From north central Canada and Hudson Bay it migrated as far south as the Gulf Coast, and west to the Great Plains, occurring all over the eastern and central parts of this country. The nesting grounds were mainly in the northern parts of the United States. In appearance, it was a beautiful bird; the slatey blue of the head and neck and duller hue of the upper parts shone with brilliant, metallic iridescence, while the reddish chestnut of the breast and underparts blended harmoniously with the whole. The tail was long and graduated, the outer feathers white, with black and chestnut markings toward the base. The common mourning dove of to-day is frequently confused with the passenger pigeon, but although similar in colouration, it is much smaller, and always shows a blackish spot behind the eye which was entirely lacking in its larger cousin.

When a flock appeared it was the signal for the whole community to turn out, and gunners were much in evidence besides those with cruder weapons. Fields were baited with grain, and the birds repairing thereto met a slaughter which was fearful. As many as one hundred, and more, were often killed at a single discharge, and this continued as long as the ammunition lasted. As if this method was too slow, the birds were caught by huge nets which were set over baited arqas, and sprung when enough pigeons had congregated beneath. This was much more effective than powder and shot, and the birds thus killed were packed in barrels and shipped to market. It is said that one concern who handled them used fifteen tons of ice in packing one shipment.

It will be readily seen from the foregoing accounts that there was some reason for thinking, as everyone did in those days, that it was impossible to exterminate. the birds. And, except for one potent fact, the huge flocks would doubtless have existed for many years. This was the treatment which was accorded the pigeons on their breeding grounds. 'As in the migrations, the numbers which gathered together to nest were almost beyond belief. They could not but attract the widest attention, and when the fact could be put to commercial advantage, there were many who took what spoil they could.

When the nesting season was on, large parties visited the locality both night and day, and killed the birds until their arms ached. The indifference of the pigeons amounted at times to stupidity, and aided in their own destruction. Trees were cut down with their burden of squabs, while the adults were netted, suffocated with sulphur fires, clubbed, shot, and dispatched in various ways, by a multiplicity of weapons. It is on record that after the birds had been packed for shipment the farmers in the neighbourhood turned their hogs loose in the ruined rookery to fatten on the bodies which the packers had overlooked. From one point in Michigan, one hundred barrels of birds were shipped to market every day for thirty days, and, allowing four hundred and eighty birds to the barrel, a fair estimate, this would bring the total to the astounding figure of one million four hundred and forty thousand birds. And there were many such wholesale butcheries.

When such facts as these are faced, it is small wonder that the pigeons did not last. Each year showed a decrease in their numbers, the market slaughter thinning the ranks with speed. In the ’9o’s, reports that pigeons were seen needed verification. Collectors had watched their opportunity, and had taken advantage whenever possible. The end was at hand. At the beginning of this century the passenger pigeon had all but disappeared. Vague reports would be heard every now and then, but investigation showed that all were based upon the sight of the mourning dove. To see a live passenger pigeon, one had to visit a zoological park, where some few still existed. It was in such a place that the Finis of their history was written. For many years, the Cincinnati Zoological Park possessed a female which was on exhibition. until, in 1914, this last survivor of a once mighty host passed away.

So ends their tragic history. It is one which reflects no credit to mankind in his treatment of the wild kindred, but we may hope that the lesson has been learned that will benefit others of the furred and feathered inhabitants of this country, and gain protection for —Reprinted from Nature Magazine, November, 1928.