98 
A Bunch of Texas 
was new, when all at once I saw before 
me at the foot of a bush the loveliest 
bunch of feathers that I had ever set 
eyes on. Without the least thought of 
what I was doing I began repeating to 
myself under my breath, “0 my soul! 
0 my soul! ” And in sober truth the 
creature was deserving of all the admira¬ 
tion it excited: a bird of the cardinal’s 
size and build, dressed not in gaudy red, 
but in the most exquisite shade of gray, 
with a plentiful spilling of an equally 
exquisite rose color over its under parts. 
Its bright orange bill was surrounded at 
the base by a double ring of black and 
rose, and on its head was a most distin¬ 
guished-looking, divided crest, tipped 
with rose color of a deeper shade. It 
was loveliness to wonder at. I cannot 
profess that I was awe-struck (not being 
sure that I know just what that excel¬ 
lent word means), but it would hardly 
be too much to say that “as I passed, 
I worshiped.” 
The Arizona bird, unhappily, was 
not often seen (the Texas bird treated 
me better), though when I did come 
upon it, it was generally in accessible 
places (in wayside hedgerows) not far 
from houses. No one could see either 
the Texas or the Arizona bird for the 
first time without comparing it with the 
cardinal, the two are so much alike, and 
yet so different. The cardinal is bright¬ 
er, but for beauty give me Pyrrhuloxia. 
I do not expect the sight of any other 
bird ever to fill me with quite so rap¬ 
turous a delight in pure color as that 
first unlooked-for Pyrrhuloxia did in 
the San Antonio chaparral. It was like 
the joy that comes from falling sud¬ 
denly upon a stanza of magical verse, or 
catching from some unexpected quarter 
a strain of heavenly music. 
If Pyrocephalus was the brightest and 
Pyrrhuloxia the most beautiful of my 
Arizona birds, Pliainopepla must be 
called the most elegant, the most su¬ 
premely graceful, if I may be pardoned 
such an application of the word, the 
most incomparably genteel. I saw it 
and Arizona Birds. 
first at Old Camp Lowell, before men¬ 
tioned, near the Rillito, at the base of 
the low foothills of the Santa Catalina 
Mountains. At my first visit to the 
camp, which is six or seven miles from 
the city of Tucson, straight across the 
desert, I mistook my way at the last 
and approached the place from the far¬ 
ther end by a cross-cut through the 
creosote bushes. Just as I reached the 
adobe ruins, all that is left of the old 
camp, I descried a black bird balancing 
itself daintily at the tip of a rnesquite. 
I lifted my glass, caught sight of the 
bird’s crest, and knew it for a Pliai- 
nopepla. How good it is to find some¬ 
thing you have greatly desired and little 
expected! 
The Phainopepla (like the Pyrrhu¬ 
loxia it has no vernacular appellation, 
living only in that sparsely settled, 
Spanish-speaking corner of the world) 
is ranked with the waxwings,- though 
except for its crest there is little or 
nothing in its outward appearance to 
suggest such a relationship; and the 
crest itself bears but a moderate resem¬ 
blance to the pointed topknot of our 
familiar cedar-bird. What I call the 
« 
Phainopepla’s elegance comes partly 
from its form, which is the very perfec¬ 
tion of shapeliness, having in the high¬ 
est degree that elusive quality which 
in semi-slang phrase is designated as 
“style;” partly from its motions, all 
prettily conscious and in a pleasing sense 
affected, like the movements of a dan¬ 
cing-master ; and partly from its color, 
which is black with the most exquisite 
bluish sheen, set off in the finest manner 
by broad wing-patches of white. These 
wing-patches are noticeable, further¬ 
more, for being divided into a kind of 
network by black lines. It is for this 
reason, I suppose, that they have a pe¬ 
culiar gauzy look (I speak of their ap¬ 
pearance while in action), such as I 
have never seen in the case of any other 
bird, and which often made me think 
of the ribbed, translucent wings of cer¬ 
tain dragon-flies. 
