719 
The Birds 
pressed for keeping. It is one thing 
to look through the glass of a show- 
case, at the dry and dusty stuffed 
counterfeit of a finch, and another to 
behold the real bird, where he natur- 
ally belongs, and in the full animation 
and illumination of his brio-lit viva- 
O 
cious life. After death, the rarest and 
finest tints soon begin to fade. And, 
moreover, is it not the dewy freshness 
of the spring morning, which adds 
more lustre than any thing else, caus- 
ing even your own eyes to be clearer 
and more appreciative ? What love- 
liness ! as if the rainbow, with heav- 
en’s smile upon it, had been broken 
into pieces, and here were the frag- 
ments flitting about. It is not a scene 
of still, passive, and unchanging 
beauty, like a picture’s or a flower- 
garden’s. There is the liveliest dra- 
matic action ; a mirthful comedy of 
the highest order is constantly per- 
forming. Every motion is so grace- 
ful and decorous, that the admiration 
of eye and ear is at once mingled with 
a sense of delight, deeper and sweeter 
than sound and sight alone can give. 
Each fresh arrival on the ground 
excites new interest and enthusiasm ; 
until by close approach, or the use of 
an opera-glass, we discover who he is. 
If some signal beauty like the Red- 
start or Tanager flies off to other 
groves, it is felt like the early depart- 
ure of a belle from the ballroom. A 
Passenger Pigeon comes, in slate-col- 
ored feathers and long tail, alighting 
on a dead limb of the tree above, and 
looking unutterable sweet things to 
his mate, who has immediately joined 
him. A Cuckoo is heard in the dis- 
tance ; and his cry of “cow, cow,” re- 
verberates through the aisles of the 
wood, like the long-drawn note of a 
flute, and, in its tender melancholy, al- 
most changes the scene from one of 
joy to sadness, like a cloud passing 
of May. 
for a moment across the sun, upon a 
bright June day. There are two 
species of cuckoo in New England, 
one with its bill yellow, and the other 
black. They do not, like their Euro- 
pean relative, live lives of shiftless 
elegance, laying their egg sin other 
birds’ nests, there to be hatched and 
reared at foreign expense, but look af- 
ter their own domestic affairs, in a way 
which does them much credit. That 
“they suck little birds’ eggs to make 
their voice clear ” is, however, much 
to be regretted. Their feathers are 
remarkably smooth and soft to the 
touch ; and with their silvery-white 
breasts, slender bodies, and long tails, 
they make a very ornamental appear- 
ance. 
Soon the slowly shifting rays of 
the sun light up immediate^ before 
us the spare and slender form of a 
young pitch-pine. Can that be a 
nest, which hangs suspended from its 
lowest twigs ? What delight in such 
a discovery ! A slender black bill and 
pair of fiery eyes appear above the 
edge of it ; and we know it is the nest 
of a Red-Eyed Vireo. A thrifty pair 
they must be, who have begun house- 
keeping so early in the season. 
The mother bird flies off, screaming 
sharply, and making a fine pretence 
of attack about the eyes and ears of her 
invader, but quickly retires to the oak- 
branch above ; where she and her mate 
utter such noises, as if each were at 
work filing a saw. Attached to the 
very tips of the twigs, the nest swings 
to and fro with every zephyr that 
blows, with the green-lattice work of 
pine leaves above it, to protect its fu- 
ture inmates from the hotter suns of 
June. Skilfully woven from strips 
of bark, fibrous tissues of plants, and 
even pieces of newspaper, it is unsup- 
ported from beneath, and depends 
upon its own architectural strength to 
