WINGED FISHERS.

The seagull loves the salt sea and the wild wind.  The waves are his cradle.  When he wishes to fly, he spreads his long, narrow wings, and the breeze carries him along as if he were a white boat with sails.

Now and then he pounces down upon the water.  That is when he catches sight of some shining fish which he thinks will make him a good dinner.  He is a hungry bird, and, fortunately for us, he is not very particular as to what he eats.  He swallows the floating scraps which would soon become unsightly and dangerous if they were left along the shore.

The common gull has a pure white breast, a slate-colored back, and black-tipped wings.  Its nest is built of seaweed on some rocky cliff or ledge.  As soon as it can scramble out of its nest, the young gull likes to sit on a ledge of rocks, where it looks like a ball of soft, gray down.  When hundreds of them are seen sitting on the same cliff, it seems wonderful that the mother birds can find their own children, but they make no mistake.  They are devoted and faithful mothers.  Often their lives are in danger, and they might easily seek safety for themselves, but they will not leave their helpless birdlings.

The gulls have the same sad story to tell that belongs to all beautiful, soft-hued birds.  They are much less numerous than formerly, because sportsmen take advantage of the mother’s devotion to kill her and steal her wings.  When girls and women consent to wear these feathers in their hats, they forget the pain and terror of the dying birds.  Few girls would go so far as to kill a bird.  Perhaps not one would harm a mother bird defending her little ones.  Yet to wear the soft, pretty wings is to doom another victim to this piteous death.

WHAT THE LITTLE SEAL THINKS.

I am very lonely and hungry.  Here I have been, for days, hidden in a cave in the rocks, and I do not dare to come out.  Only a little while ago my mother and I were so happy!  To lie on the sunny beach, to splash and swim in the salt sea, to nestle close to her soft, warm fur when I was cold and tired,—­this was my life.

Then men came in boats and drove away my playmates in a flock to be clubbed and killed.  When I ran back to my mother I could not find her, but her beautiful coat had been torn off and thrown upon a pile of skins.  My mother had been killed while she was trying to find me.  I wonder if any woman would wear my mother’s coat if she knew this.

WHAT THE YOUNG SEABIRD THINKS.

There comes that man with a gun!  The winter wren has just told me what it means.  It seems that women like to wear the feathers of dead birds, and that man is trying to shoot my mother as she comes back to her nest.  I am afraid I shall never see her again.

The wren tells me that people like to adorn themselves with the skins of fur-coated animals.  It does seem strange that men and women think that they cannot be well dressed without killing us and wearing our clothes.