THE POETS 1 BIRDS. 195 



" He has lost his last year's love, I know,' 1 



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 moanings, that no 



