Do we care, you and I,

For the songbirds winging by?

Ruffled throat and bosom’s sheen,

Thrill of wing, of gold or green,

Sapphire, crimson—gorgeous dye

Lost or found across the sky,

’Midst the glory of the air,

Birds who tenderer colors wear?

What to us the free bird’s song,

Breath of passion, breath of wrong,

Wood-heart’s orchestra, her life,

Breath of love and breath of strife,

Joy’s fantasias, anguish breath,

Cries of doubt and cries of death?

Shall we care when nesting-time

Brings no birds from any clime,

Not a voice or ruby wing,

Not a single nest to swing

’Midst the reeds or higher up,

Like a dainty fairy-cup;

Not a single little friend,

All the way as footsteps wend

Here and there through every clime,

Not a bird at any time?

Does it matter, do we care

What the feathers women wear

Cost the world? For birds must die;

Not a clime where they may fly

Safely through their native air;

Slaughter meets them everywhere.

Scorned be hands that touch such spoil!

Let women pity, and recoil

From traffic, barbarous and grave,

And quickly strive the birds to save.

—George Klingle.