176 THE LIGHT. 



sees you, watches you, sends a deep roar from the cavernous recesses 

 of his throat of brass, sums up his living prey, exacts and lays claim 

 to it ! The horse cannot be held still ; he trembles, a cold sweat 

 pours over him, he plunges to and fro. His rider, crouching between 

 the watch-fires, if he succeeds in kindling any, with difficulty pre- 

 serves sufficient streng-th to feed the rampart of light which is his 

 only safeguard. 



Night is equalh' terrible for the birds, even in our climates, where it 

 would seem less dangerous. AMiat monsters it conceals, what frig-ht- 

 ful chances for the bird lurk in its obscurity ! Its nocturnal foes have 

 this characteristic in common — their approach is noiseless. The 

 screech-owl flies with a silent wing, as if wi^apped in tow (comme 

 e.towpee de ouate). The weasel insinuates its long body into the nest 

 without disturljing a leaf The eager polecat, athirst for the warm 

 ]ife-blo(jd, is so rapid, that in a moment it bleeds both parents and pro- 

 geny, and slaughters a Avhole family. 



It seems that the bird, when it has little ones, enjoys a second 

 siglit for these dangers. It has to protect a family far more feeble 

 and more helpless than that of the quadruped, whose young can walk 

 as soon as born. But how protect them ? It can do nothing but 

 remain at its post and die; it cannot fly away, for its love has broken 

 its wings. All night the narrow entry of the nest is guarded by the 

 father, who sinks with fatigue, and opposes danger with feeble beak 

 and shaking head, \\liat will this avail if the enormous jaw of the 

 serpent suddenly appears, or the horrible eye of the bird of death, 

 immeasurably enlarged by fear ? 



Anxious for its young, it has little care for itself In its season 

 of solitude Nature spares it the tortures of prevision. Sad and 

 dejected rather than alarmed, it is silent, it sinks down and hides its 

 little head under its wings, and even its neck disappears among the 

 plumes. This position of complete self-abandonment, of confidence, 

 which it had held in the egg — in the happy maternal prison, where 

 its security was so perfect — it resumes every evening in the midst of 

 perils and without protection. 



