CHAPTER II. 
COUETSHIP AND M ARBI AGE. 
“ Hear how the hushes echo ! by my life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing 
Like poets from the vanity of song ? 
Or have they any sense of what they sing? 
And would they praise the heavens for what they have? 
And I made answer, ‘ Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens hut only love, 
That only love were cause enough for praise.’” 
Tennyson. 
Birds, less restricted than man, yield to the seasons 
as they come round. As these change, and the year 
commences, passes on, and closes, so they do the like. 
Of birds, one may say they blossom with the spring, 
bear fruit in summer, hide themselves and their young 
in autumn, and rest or mourn through the gloomy 
winter. Spring is to them the merriest, most beautiful, 
and happiest time of their lives ; decked in their brightest 
garb, to which dry science, even, gives the name of 
“ nuptial plumage/' they return, joyously singing, to the 
old haunts they quitted the previous autumn, or seek to 
found a home. First, however, as in the chivalrous days 
of old, comes many a gallant tilting match, both in the 
air and on the greensward, to win the “fair one’s” 
approbation; for, even among birds, bliss is not obtained 
without a struggle. It is not every bird that has the 
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