chain of sugar-loaf hills to the east. Although we were nearly three hundred 

 miles south of the shore of Lake Michigan, we were not quite near enough to 

 Dixie to have left behind us the last trace of winter. A light cloak of snow 

 clothed the hilltops, and upon the lawn that stretched away from the hotel steps, 

 white patches showed here and there. At the edge of one of these snowy spots 

 a male robin, with the "brighter crimson" of the springtime on his breast, was 

 was pulling a reluctant worm from the sod. He was especially welcome to his 

 discoverers, for he was their first robin of the season. Before we had crossed 

 the bridge which spans the little river, we passed a score of robin brothers and 

 sisters, all industriously and successfully "digging for bait." We started some of 

 the birds from their feeding-places, and thereat they made straight for the maples, 

 where their breasts added another bit of red to the budding trees. They did not 

 seem to resent our discourtesy, but in the joy coming from full stomachs and a 

 glorious morning, they told us in chorus to "cheer up." 



My heart was set on redbirds. I had never been so placed that I could form 

 a close acquaintance with these gold-tongued creatures. I had seen the cardinal 

 grosbeak — that is the redbird's other name — only on rare occasions. One year a 

 pair of the birds visited Graceland cemetery in the city of Chicago. They were 

 accidental visitors, and my companionship with them was limited to the space of 

 thirty minutes. I had just enough of it to make me wish for more. There is 

 something in the note of the cardinal grosbeak that satisfies my ear more fully, 

 perhaps, than the song of any other bird. It has about it a wholesomeness and 

 yet a sweetness and cheer that I have found in no other bird voice. I must 

 confess, however, that when I have made this admission to friends who have 

 more music in their souls than ever I may hope to have, they have regarded it as 

 a bit of enthusiasm springing from no very sound judgment. Certain it is, how- 

 ever, that no one can tire of the color and marked individuality of the cardinal 

 grosbeak. 



The startled robins had returned to their feeding-ground when from some 

 brush beyond the railroad trestle came a melodious whistle, "Beauty, beauty, 

 beauty." It was the call of Master Redbird. Small blame to him for being vain 

 and for pouring into the ears of his listeners the oft-repeated tale of his beauty. 

 A song sparrow had taken to the topmost rail of a crooked fence, and his ecstatic 

 song was coming from a throat that bade fair to split. When the full, rich notes 

 of the cardinal came over the field and marsh, the sparrow stopped singing, as 

 if he knew that a master's instrument was in tune. From the standpoint of 

 pure melody, however, I am told, and I believe, that the sober-garbed song spar- 

 row need not fear to have his voice put to the test with that of his brilliant cousin. 

 There were a dozen cardinals in the underbrush by the swamp. The singing was 

 constant, but for some reason of their own, the birds sang only one at a time. 

 I thought, perhaps, they felt that a chorus of such sweetness would cloy. The 

 Mesdames Cardinal, of whom there were several, refused to sing at all on that 



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