THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS 27 
robins and thrushes. In other words, she seems to 
sing from some outward motive, and not from in- 
ward joyousness. She is a good versifier, but not 
a great poet. Vigorous, rapid, copious, not without 
fine touches, but destitute of any high, serene mel- 
ody, her performance, like that of Thoreau’s squir- 
rel, 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 re- 
spect. 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, how- 
ever, 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 spectator 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 expanded jaws. As he seemed uncon- 
scious of my presence, I quietly observed the pro- 
ceedings. By slow degrees he compassed the bird 
