the perishing. Even back in the
sixties and seventies, very, very few men of the North thought of
killing prairie chickens, ducks and quail, snipe and woodcock, in order
to keep the hunger wolf from the door. The process was too slow and
uncertain; and besides, the really-poor man rarely had the gun and
ammunition. Instead of attempting to live on birds, he hustled for the
staple food products that the soil of his own farm could produce.

First, last and nearly all the time, the game birds of the United States
as a whole, have been sacrificed on the altar of Rank Luxury, to tempt
appetites that were tired of fried chicken and other farm delicacies.
To-day, even the average poor man hunts birds for the joy of the outing,
and the pampered epicures of the hotels and restaurants buy game birds,
and eat small portions of them, solely to tempt jaded appetites. If
there is such a thing as "class" legislation, it is that which permits a
few sordid market-shooters to slaughter the birds of the whole people in
order to sell them to a few epicures.

The game of a state belongs to the whole people of the state. The
Supreme Court of the United States has so decided. (Geer vs.
Connecticut). If it is abundant, it is a valuable asset. The great value
of the game birds of America lies not in their meat pounds as they lie
upon the table, but in the temptation they annually put before millions
of field-weary farmers and desk-weary clerks and merchants to get into
their beloved hunting togs, stalk out into the lap of Nature, and say
"Begone, dull Care!"

And the man who has had a fine day in the painted woods, on the bright
waters of a duck-haunted bay, or in the golden stubble of September, can
fill his day and his soul with six good birds just as well as with
sixty. The idea that in order to enjoy a fine day in the open a man must
kill a wheel-barrow load of birds, is a mistaken idea; and if
obstinately adhered to, it becomes vicious! The Outing in the Open is
the thing,--not the blood-stained feathers, nasty viscera and Death in
the game-bag. One quail on a fence is worth more to the world than ten
in a bag.

The farmers of America have, by their own supineness and lack of
foresight, permitted the slaughter of a stock of game birds which, had
it been properly and wisely conserved, would have furnished a good
annual shoot to every farming man and boy of sporting instincts through
the past, right down to the present, and far beyond. T