THE RETURN OF -THE BIRDS. 29 



minstrels, as if she had taken up music only to be in 

 the fashion, or not to be outdone by the robins and 

 thrushes. In other words, she seems to sing from 

 some outward motive, and not from inward joyousness. 

 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 vivacious conversation of a 

 well-bred lady of the world, that commands respect. 

 Her maternal 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 eglantine, 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 spec- 

 tator of a loathsome, yet fascinating scene. Three or 

 four yards from me was the nest, beneath which, in 

 long festoons, rested a huge black snake ; a bird two 

 thirds grown, was slowly disappearing between his ex- 

 panded jaws. As he seemed unconscious of my pies- 



