THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 37 



disconcerting some envied songster. Ambitious of 

 gong, practicing and rehearsing in private, she yet 

 seems the least sincere and genuine of the sylvan 

 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 joyous- 

 ness. 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 per- 

 formance, like that of Thoreau's squirrel, always im- 

 plies a spectator. 



There is a certain air and polish about her strain, 

 however, like that in the vivacious converpation of a 

 well-bred lady of the world, that commando 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 threaten- 

 ing my sombre-colored minstrel. On effecting an en- 

 trance, which, however, was not accomplished till I 

 had doffed coat and hat, so as to diminish the surface 

 ^xposed to the thorns and brambles, and looking 

 around me from a square yard of terra firma, I found 

 myself the spectator of a loathsome, yet fascinating 

 iceue. Three or four yards from me was the nest, 



