42 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 



other words, she seems to sing from some 

 outward motive, and not from inward joy- 

 ousness. She is a good versifier, but not a 

 great poet. Vigorous, rapid, copious, not 

 without fine touches, but destitute of any 

 high, serene melody, her performance, like 

 that of Thoreau's squirrel, always implies a 

 spectator. 



There is a certain air and polish about 

 her strain, however, like that in the viva- 

 cious conversation of a well-bred lady of the 

 world, that commands respect. Her ma- 

 ternal 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 eglan- 

 tine, 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, 

 however, 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 



