A Book on Birds 



To me his only accomplishment worthy 

 to be called a song — the brief, warbling 

 canticle he repeats endlessly morning and 

 evening — is simply brave, trustful joy, 

 in its most primitive outpouring; and 

 the Wild Dove's strain — is resignation to 

 sorrow; and the Blue Jay's strident cry 

 — hate and cynicism; and the Kingfisher's 

 ^^clack-e-ty-clack" — reckless, superficial jol- 

 lity; and the Meadow Lark's clear call — 

 serene contentment, with the Bluebird's 

 faint, ethereal voice as its lovely echo. 



As for others — when my approach drives 

 the Catbird from his nest the noise he 

 emits is pure surliness to my ear; when 

 he is singing all alone, unaware of my pres- 

 ence, it is pure bliss. I know^ and love the 

 Wood Thrush especially (above other noble 

 traits) for the rehgious devotion of his 

 evening hymn; and the Hermit, just a little 

 more for an even deeper reverence. The 

 mellow richness of the Scarlet Tanager's 

 scant melody appeals to my mind as the 

 warmest passion of the w^oods; and so on — 

 and on, to the end of the long, sweet list. 



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