THE POETS' BIRDS. 195 



" He has lost his last year's love, I know," 



when he did not know any such thing ; and 

 add, 



" A thrush forgets in a year," 



which I call a libel on one of our most intelli- 

 gent birds ; or cry, with another singer, 

 " O voiceless swallow," 



when not one of the whole tribe is defrauded of 

 a voice, and at least one is an exquisite singer ; 

 or accuse the nightingale of the -superfluous 

 idiocy of holding his (though they always say 

 her) breast to a thorn as he sings, as if he were 

 so foolish as to imitate some forms of human 

 self-torture, if they would only be a little 

 more sure of their facts, what a comfort it 

 would be to those who love both poets and 

 birds! 



No bird in our country is more persistently 

 misrepresented by our sweet singers than the 

 Carolina or wood dove mourning dove, as he 

 is popularly called ; and in this case they are 

 not to be blamed, for prose writers, even natural 

 history writers, are quite as bad. 



" His song consists," says one, " of four 

 notes : the first seems to be uttered with an in- 

 spiration of the breath, as if the afflicted crea- 

 ture were just recovering its voice from the last 

 convulsive sob of distress, and followed by three 

 long, deep, and mournful meanings, that no 



