“The Race to Save the Lord God Bird,” by Phillip Hoose; Farrar, Straus and Giroux; hardcover, $20

The bird has been called many things, but the most common name is the “Lord God Bird.” Upon seeing the size, strength and beauty of the ivory-billed woodpecker in the swamp forests of the American South, countless people would mutter, “Lord God.” But the need so many people had to possess that strength and beauty turned the bird’s call into a phantom call. The last confirmed sighting of the bird in the United States was in 1943.

With hundreds of animals and birds threatened with extinction, why read the story of one lone bird that may have passed out of existence? In the hands of Portland writer Phillip Hoose, the Lord God Bird’s story is a unique and hopeful tale that encapsulates the social history of the United States and the history of conservation.

The ivory-bill had a 3-foot wingspan of gleaming black feathers and a white and red crest. Its bill was its most extraordinary feature. The ivory colored bill acted as crowbar and chisel to pry loose the bark of dying trees so the bird could get the grubs underneath. Native Americans were the first to revere the bird. Many warriors wore ivory-bill heads around their necks in hopes of inheriting the bird’s power to “drill holes through their enemies.”

One of the many riveting accounts of the ivory-bill in Hoose’s new book is Alexander Wilson’s encounter with the bird in 1809. Wilson was on a mission to paint all the birds of the new America. In the style of the time, Wilson shot and killed his specimens to paint them. Uncharacteristically, he simply wounded a male ivory-bill in the swamps of North Carolina.

He wrapped the bird in his coat and spirited it away to his hotel room. Leaving the ivory-bill alone for only a few minutes, Wilson returned to find that the bird had smashed a 15-inch square hole in the hotel wall and was only seconds away from breaking through to freedom. Wilson did not release the bird and, after three days of painting, the proud bird died before Wilson’s eyes.

Readers will be alarmed to be reminded that the practice of naturalists in the 1800s was to shoot their specimens. In that time before cameras or field guides, this was often the only way to chronicle a new species. In this time, “collector” was synonymous with “scientist,” and many men collected birds. Prized above most other birds was the Lord God. The bird was a “rare” beauty and, the more it was hunted for collections, the rarer and more valuable it became. One Bostonian, William Brewster, had 61 ivory-bills in his homespun museum.

Hoose goes on to profile the men and women who began to understand the importance of observation in study and also the importance of habitat. From Wilson’s 1809 encounter through the Civil War and on past World War II, the realization grew that habitat was falling victim to the progress of the nation.

Hoose brilliantly identifies the small facts of history that delayed the demise of the bird or hastened it.

For example, the seemingly unrelated fact that the Singer sewing machine was an extremely popular household item in the 1920s affected the bird. The last known hideout of the ivory-bill was a stretch of Louisiana swamp logged by Singer to produce wooden cabinets for its machines.

Scientists and others may have lost the race to save the Lord God Bird. Yet, this isn’t a hopeless tale. The obsessive fight to understand and save the bird by people like the great James Tanner opened innumerable doors for science and for the preservation of other species. Hoose quotes Aristotle, “Nature does nothing uselessly.” This refers to the evolutionary path of this magnificent bird, and also to the lessons it has taught us.

Note: Do not be deterred if you find that this book is shelved in the children’s department of your local bookstore or library. Hoose writes for people 12 years and older. If you are an adult, you will have no idea it’s a children’s book. If you are a child, you will be amazed that Hoose understands that you understand.

Kirsten Cappy is a bookseller in Portland.