this. A bird wants to be let alone. An animal can talk to us, not in articulate 

 speech but in ways which we can interpret. But a bird cannot speak at all. 

 We cannot guess what is going on in its mind. We cannot imagine what its 

 heart feels. We cannot even look into its eye. A bird looks at us, but never 

 into us. There is no commerce between the eye of a man and the eye of a 

 bird. And yet for all this, a bird is a companion, a comrade, a 

 friend. An interesting pastime would be collecting the testimony of 

 great men and women as to what birds have done for them. Martin Luther 

 in an hour of gloom was heartened by one of them. Thomas Carlyle in a 

 lonely journey was cheered by a company of them. Dan Crawford in Central 

 Africa felt himself at home when he suddenly heard the friendly tapping of a 

 woodpecker on a tree immediately behind him. Matthew Arnold wrote one 

 of his sweetest poems on the death of a pet bird. 



It is an interesting fact that the most unusual poem which America has 

 produced has for its title the name of a bird, "The Raven," and that the weird- 

 est, most unforgetable poem ever written by an Englishman, "The Rime of the 

 Ancient Mariner," tells the tragedy of the death of a bird. 



The poets of Israel caught fresh lessons for the soul from the habits and 

 nature of birds. When they noticed how the parent bird breaks up the nest, 

 compelling the young birds to fly, they saw an illustration of the method of 

 God in dealing with immortal souls. When he desires men to forsake their 

 easy and comfortable positions, and to soar aloft, testing untried powers of 

 their nature, he breaks up the conditions in which they have been living and 

 forces them upon hazardous and novel adventures. The tenderness and solici- 

 tude and faithfulness of the mother bird made a profound impression on the 

 poets of Palestine. The downy softness and warm tenderness and gentle 

 strength of the protecting wings were hints and revelations, so the Hebrew poets 

 thought, of the innermost heart of the Eternal. There was at least one poet 

 who dared to image God himself in the form of a bird. 



He shall cover thee with his feathers. 

 Under his wings shalt thou trust. 



Look, then, at the birds ! If you look at them you may come to love them. 

 When you come to love them, you will have added to the stature of your life. 

 What we love, we live. Our life is measured by our love. 



He prayeth well who loveth well 

 Both man and bird and beast. 

 He prayeth best who loveth best 

 All things both great and small. 

 For the dear God who loveth us, 

 He made us and loveth all. 



— Woman's Home Companion. 

 309 



