10 Bird Day Book 



THE BIRD. 



By John Ruskin. 



THE BIRD is little more than a drift of the air brought into 

 form by plumes ; the air is in all its quills, it breathes through 

 its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air in its flying, like a 

 blown flame; it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it, outraces 

 it — is the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself, ruling itself. 



Also, into the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. 

 All that in the wind itself is weak, useless in sweetness, is knit 

 together in its song. As we may imagine the wild form of the 

 cloud closed into the perfect form of the bird's wings, so the wild 

 voice of the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice ; un- 

 wearied, rippling through the clear heaven in its gladness, inter- 

 preting all intense passion through the soft spring nights, bursting 

 into acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping and twit- 

 tering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, like 

 little winds that only make the cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the 

 petals of the wild rose. 



Also, upon the plumes of the bird are put the colors of the 

 air ; on these the gold of the cloud, that cannot be gathered by any 

 covetousness ; the rubies of the clouds, the vermillion of the cloud- 

 bar, and the flame of the cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud, 

 and its shadow, and the melted blue of the deep wells of the sky — 

 all these, seized by the creating spirit, and woven into films and 

 threads of plume; with wave on wave following and fading along 

 breast, and throat, and opened wings, infinite as the dividing of 

 the foam and the sifting of the sea sand ; — even the white down of 

 the cloud seeming to flutter up between the stronger plumes, seen, 

 but too soft for touch. 



