The Red-winged Blackbirds 



He took pains that I should see them, too, and guess his rank, for these 

 decorations were ostentatiously uplifted as the bearer slowly descended 

 through the air. He appeared an amiable old fellow, and as he lighted 

 ponderously on an uplifted branch of my tree, he remarked, " Whoo-kuswee- 

 ung," so hospitably that I felt impelled to murmur, "Thanks," and 

 assured him of my unhostile intent. " Conquer ee?" he questioned, 

 richly. "Er — well, yes, if you are the conqueror." 



But the general had other interests to watch. An upstart male of 

 the second year, with shoulder-straps of a sickly orange hue, was descried 

 a rod away climbing hand-over-hand up a cat-tail stem. Keyring, 

 keyring, the despot warned him ; and because the presumptuous youth 

 did not heed him quickly enough, he launched his splendor over the 

 spot, whereat the youth sank in dire confusion. And next, our hero 

 caught sight of a female, fair to look upon, peeping at him furtively from 

 behind her lattice of reeds. To see was to act. He flung his heart at the 

 maiden upon the instant, and followed headlong after, through I know 

 not what reedy mazes. Oh, heart ever young, and pursuit never weary- 

 ing! 



An annual visit to the cattail swamp is as necessary as a birthday 

 to the life of any well-regulated bird-lover. The reedy mazes grow 

 ever dearer year by year, and the chorus of expostulating blackbirds, 

 which is their inevitable accompaniment, renews our racial youth as if 

 by magic. We must not forget the date of first nesting, April 15th, for 

 almost before we know it, our friends to the number of a dozen pairs or 

 more, have taken up their residence in the old cattail swamp — nowhere 

 else, if you please, unless driven to it — and here a dozen baskets of match- 

 less weave are swung, or lodged, midway of growing plants. Our distant 

 approach has been commented upon from the tops of bordering willows 

 by keyrings and other notes. Now at close range, the lordly male, he of 

 the brilliant epaulets and the proper military swagger, shakes out his fine 

 clothes and says, Kongqueree, in a voice wherein anxiety is quite out- 

 weighed by vanity and proffered good-fellowship withal. But if we push 

 roughly through the outlying sedges, anxiety obtains the mastery. There 

 is a hubbub in the marsh. Bustling, frowsy females appear and scold us 

 roundly. The lazy gallants are all fathers now, and they join direful 

 threats to courteous expostulations as they flutter wildly about our 

 intruding heads. To the residual small boy in us the chance of calling 

 out these frantic attentions is irresistible, even though no harm is in- 

 tended, or done. Perhaps we love to play the part of bogey, that we 

 may rejoice in our own restraint. Perhaps we perceive, if we stop to 

 think at all, that our own anxieties may be as mildly amusing to some 

 benevolent Presence, and as ill-founded. 



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