k 
The Birds of May. 721 
ed in one direction, and tlieir longer 
and featherless legs in the other. 
They look like gigantic wasps; and 
it is well they go, for they are disa- 
greeable creatures at the best, though 
ludicrous to look at. The blue jay 
is another discordant creature, though 
very handsome ; and, if you break 
those azure wings of his, with the 
charge from a shot-gun, all the little 
birds whose nests he robs will sing 
their most tuneful thanks to you. 
A little deeper in the woods, where 
the tall dark forms of the pine-tree 
tower up on every side, and lead the 
eye into a labyrinth of fancied cathe- 
dral aisles ; where the sound of feet 
is hushed upon a carpet woven of 
myriads of dead leaves, and sunshine 
hardly. dares intrude, — here, too, there 
is somewhat worth living to enjoy. 
There is no freedom from care, like 
what one finds in that dim religious 
twilight, resting upon the eternal 
granite, and listening to that low, 
mysteriously murmuring sound, which 
was once the world’s cradle-song. 
The bright-colored warblers and fly- 
catchers are not to be found here. 
With all their brilliancy and vivacity, 
they are not serious enough to be in har- 
mony with this great sanctuary of na- 
ture. Upon a lofty branch, all alone 
by himself, sits the Bose-breasted 
Grosbeak, with his front of carmine 
glowing beneath the intense black of 
head and neck. First of American 
songsters, he wastes no voice in twit- 
tering light tunes, but utters forth a 
melody so full and deep and earnest, 
and with such tender modulation, 
that its power takes entire possession 
of us, and we are willing to confess 
that this is the very Orpheus among 
birds. Sweet and low he sings ; then 
high and clear, uniting, like the best 
poets, grace and vigor, tenderness and 
grandeur. Lovers of Beethoven’s 
Andantes might find in him also some- 
thing of what they most admire in 
that great composer; it is a harmony 
almost melancholy, yet not depressing. 
Just at the moment, when it seems to 
be upon the verge of sadness, it rises 
again into all the strength and gran- 
deur of an heroic symphony ; while, 
bebindit, the mighty murmuring of the 
pine-trees fills the same place as organ 
music at the concerts. It is true that 
the celebrated Mocking Bird is a won- 
derfully skilful imitator ; but here we 
have original creation. The differ- 
ence is like that between any Italian 
improvisatore, and Dante or Tasso. 
I do not know, but I should very 
much doubt, if a Mocking Bird would 
dare to imitate the Bose-breasted 
Grosbeak. Whatever mind there 
may be in such a creature must yet 
be genuine enough to yield before its 
true superior. 
Who would not wish to rest in that 
retreat, and listen all day to such 
music ? I once met in the mountains 
a clergyman, — perhaps the very one 
of whom Whittier has spoken in 
his “ Birds of Killing worth,” — 
“ A man whose very instinct was to kill,” — 
and he had just shot one of these peer- 
less birds. He said that he mistook 
it for a woodpecker ; and I suppose he 
did: though why he should shoot a 
woodpecker, either, was hard to tell. 
I looked at the poor wreck of beauty 
that he held before me, its rosy breast 
stained to deeper crimson, and thought, 
“ How can this man pray for mercy, 
who seems to have so little ? and how 
can he be properly a teacher of good- 
ness, who has no greater respect for the 
beautiful ? ” It was not merely a ques- 
tion of cruelty to animals ; it was 
deplorable that one should catch even 
a glimpse of a creature so fine, and 
not wish it to live forever. 
