THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS 27 



robins and thrushes. In other words, she seems to 

 sing from some outward motive, and not from in- 

 ward joyousness. She is a good versifier, but not 

 a great poet. Vigorous, rapid, copious, not without 

 fine touches, but destitute of any high, serene mel- 

 ody, her performance, like that of Thoreau's squir- 

 rel, always implies a spectator. 



There is a certain air and polish about her strain, 

 however, like that in the vivacious conversation of 

 a well-bred lady of the world, that commands re- 

 spect. Her maternal instinct, also, is very strong, 

 and that simple structure of dead twigs and dry 

 grass is the centre of much anxious solicitude. Not 

 long since, while strolling through the woods, my 

 attention was attracted to a small densely grown 

 swamp, hedged in with eglantine, brambles, and 

 the everlasting smilax, from which proceeded loud 

 cries of distress and alarm, indicating that some 

 terrible calamity was threatening my sombre-colored 

 minstrel. On effecting an entrance, which, how- 

 ever, was not accomplished till I had doffed coat 

 and hat, so as to diminish the surface exposed to 

 the thorns and brambles, and, looking around me 

 from a square yard of terra firma, I found myself 

 the spectator of a loathsome yet fascinating scene. 

 Three or four yards from me was the nest, beneath 

 which, in long festoons, rested a huge black snake ; 

 a bird two thirds grown was slowly disappearing 

 between his expanded jaws. As he seemed uncon- 

 scious of my presence, I quietly observed the pro- 

 ceedings. By slow degrees he compassed the bird 



