Some people call us the Wild Pigeon and the Gypsy among birds. We do
wander long distances in search of food, and when we have eaten all the
beech nuts in one part of the country, take wing, and away we go like a
great army to another place.
And such an army! We form in a column eight or ten miles long, thousands
and thousands of us, our approach sounding like a gale among the rigging
of a vessel. Not always in a straight course do we go, but in a winding
way looking for all the world, against the sky, like a vast river. Then
our leaders give the word, our captains, you know, and we form in a
straight line, sweeping along as you have seen regiments of soldiers
marching on parade. We are just as fond of forming new figures as they
are, and our captains, by their actions, give their orders much in the
same way.
"Down, Up! Right, Left!" and away we go forming our evolutions in the
air.
But you should see us when Mr. Hawk attacks our flock. Then, like a
torrent, and with a noise like thunder, we rush into one compact mass,
each pressing upon the other toward the center. Swiftly we descend
almost to the earth, then up again, forming as we do a straight column,
twisting, turning, looking, when far up in the air, like a great
serpent. At other times we fly straight ahead, very swiftly, going at
the rate of a mile a minute. I don't believe any of you little folks
have ever traveled as fast as that behind a locomotive.
Then our roosting places! Ah, you ought to see us there! There was one
in Kentucky, I remember, in a dense forest, where the trees were very
large, a forest forty miles long and three wide, larger than many
cities. The Pigeons began to collect after sunset, thousands upon
thousands, flock after flock continuing to arrive even after midnight.
There were not trees enough to go around, and so many of us perched upon
one limb that the largest branches broke, killing hundreds of Pigeons in
their fall. The noise we made could be heard at the distance of three
miles. People who like Pigeon pie came with long poles and guns, and
when morning broke, and the Pigeons that could fly had disappeared,
there were heaps and heaps of little fellows lying dead upon the ground.
We occupied that roost about two weeks. When we left it for good, the
forest looked like it had been swept by a tornado.
[Illustration: From col. Ruthven Deane.
PASSENGER PIGEON.
Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1898, Chicago.]