492 



NEW ENGLAND FAK^IER. 



Oct. 



among the coral rocks. The low note of this 

 bird is more than usually sweet, pure, and 

 mournful in its tone. But the doves are not 

 the only visitors of those rare springs. A few 

 years since, pirates haunted the same spots, 

 seeking, like the birds, water from their natu- 

 ral fountains. 



It chanced one day that a party of those 

 fierce outlaws came to a desolate key to fill 

 their water-casks, ere sailing on some fresh 

 cruise of violence. A little Hock of the rose- 

 gray doves — and their flocks are ever few and 

 rare — were flitting and cooing in peace about 

 the rocky basin when the pirates appeared; 

 in affright, they took wing, and flew away. 

 The casks were filled, and the ruffian crew 

 rowed their boat off to their craft lying at an- 

 chor In the distance. For some reason, ap- 

 parently accidental, one of the band remained 

 awhile on the island alone. In a quiet evening 

 hour, he threw himself on the rocks, near the 

 spring, looking over the broad sea, where 

 here and there a low desert islet rose from the 

 deep, while the vessel with which his own fate 

 had long been connected lay idle, with furled 

 canvas, in the oiling. 



Presently the little doves, seeing all quiet 

 again, returned to their favorite spring, flit- 

 ting to and fro in peace, uttering to each other 

 their low, gentle notes, so caressing and so 

 plaintive. It may have been that in the wild 

 scenes of his turbulent career the wretched 

 man had never known the force of solitude. 

 He was now gradually overpowered by its 

 mysterious influences, pressing upon heart and 

 mind. He felt himself to be alone with his 

 Maker. The works of the Holy One sur- 

 rounded him — the pure heavens hanging over 

 his guilty head, the sea stretching in silent 

 grandeur far into the unseen distance. One 

 object alone, bearing the mark of man, lay 

 within range of his eye — that guilty craft, 

 which, like an evil phantom, hovered in the 

 offing, brooding sin. 



The sounds most familiar to him for years 

 had been curse, and ribald jest, and brutal 

 threat, and shriek of death. But now those 

 little doves came hovering about him, uttering 

 their guileless notes of tenderness and inno- 

 cence. Far away, in his native woods, with n 

 sight of his father''s roof, he had often listened 

 in boyhood to other doves, whose notes, like 

 these, were pure and sweet. Home memo- 

 ries, long banished from his breast, returned. 

 The image of his Christian mother stood be- 

 fore him. 



Those little doves, still uttering their low, 

 pure, inoffensive note, seemed bearing to him 

 the far-off echoes of every sacred word of de- 

 vout faith, of pure precept, of generous feel- 

 ing, which, in happier years, had reached his 

 ear. A fearful consciousness of guilt came 

 over the wretched man. His heart was utter- 



THE ZENAIDA DOTE. 



ly subdued. The stern pride of manhood 

 gave way. A powerful tide of contrition 

 swept away all evil barriers. Bitter tears of 

 remorse fell upon the stone on which his head 

 rested. And that was to him the turning- 

 point of life. 



He rose from the rock a penitent, firmly re- 

 solved to retrace his steps — to return to better 

 things. By the blessing of God, the resolu- 

 tion was adhered to. He broke away from 

 his evil courses, thrust temptation aside, re- 

 turned to his native soil to lead a life of pen- 

 itence and honest toil. Many years later, a 

 stranger came to his cabin, In the wild forests 

 of the Southern country, a man venerable In 

 mien, shrewd and kindly In countenance — 

 wandering through the woods on pleasant er- 

 rands of his own. The birds of that region 

 were the stranger's object. The inmate of 

 the cabin had much to tell on this subject ; 

 and, gradually, as the two were thrown to- 

 gether in the solitude of the forest, the heart 

 of the penitent opened to his companion. 



He avowed that he loved the birds of heav- 

 en : he had cause to love them — the doves, es- 

 pecially ; they had been as friends to him ; 

 they had spoken to his heart in the most sol- 

 emn hour of life ! And then came that sin- 

 gular confession. The traveller was Audu- 

 bon, the great ornithologist, who has left on 

 record in his works this striking incident. In 

 olden times, what a beautiful ballad would 

 have been written on such a theme — fiesh and 

 wild as the breeze of the forest, sweet and 

 plaintive as the note of the dove ! — Appleton's 

 Juvenile Annual. 



