THE old epicures of Greece and Rome used on high occasions to revel in a dish of nightingales' brains. This was a wanton waste of birds; but to destroy birds for their beauty, and wear them in dead show as decorations, is a more revolting misuse than even the poorest pretense of turning them into food. Something like the heathen sentiment that gloated over the splendidly formed gladiator “Butchered to make a Roman holiday,” Seems to survive in civilization, and ride uppermost in the luxurious selfishness of dress. At least the taste of parading on the head the stuffed post mortem of a pretty creature killed for show is more appropriate to barbarian princesses and “medicine-men” than to the belles of Christian society. A correspondent of Forest and Stream says:— “In Massachusetts many thousand sea-swallows are killed every season, and their skins sent to France to be dyed for millinery purposes. It is in the direction of fashion that the destruction of our many birds is most to be feared—and the fashion is simply a disgusting one. Nothing is more sickening than a dead bird on a hat. It contributes nothing to the good taste of the wearer. I have seen a woman in the horse-cars this winter with the whole front of a prairie chicken on her hat, with shriveled beak and glass beads for eyes, projecting in the same direction as the woman's nose. The expression on her face seems to say, ‘What a nice ornament I wear on my hat!’ What a poor, cruel taste!” The writer of this has at the present time a Brazilian grass parouquet, a very handsome and affectionate little fellow. He sits on the finger while his master writes; chirps and kisses his fingers, then runs up the arm and nestles under his chin, puts his head into the vest pocket, will even climb up and kiss the lips if permitted to do so. This bird is a beauty, and has a little episode in his history. His beautiful plumage, long-tipped wing-pinions and tail might have cost him his life. A would-be lady earnestly petitioned his owner the other day to sell him. She had just held him on her finger and witnessed some of his affectionate, cunning tricks. But it turned out that she wanted him stuffed to wear on her hat. That woman would make a good Indian squaw, but she pretends to move in good society.—Youth's Companion.