Me and a heath hen, which was a favorite foodstuff in Colonial times. This is the saddest story of all, but right up my alley in terms of romantic tragedy. From the NBS Lost Bird Project brochure: “Heath hens usually only flew to the lower branches of the trees…in 1929, ornithologists witnessed a hopeful male fly to the top of a tree and call out, loudly and repeatedly, across the island. There were no heath hens to hear his plea.” That final male was last seen in 1932.
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