DEENA: UIB ONS BUTE EEN 15 
b 
next for some unexplained reason he doesn't.” Garland was there the wrong 
night. Not a note was heard. 
August in Illinois is not a month of singing birds. None of us natives 
expected to hear any bird songs of consequence in the morning at this time 
of year. We expected to be wakened by the cawing of crows or by the 
squirrels dropping young acorns on the roof. Only Sharp had faith. After 
some further philosophizing we quieted down and the night orchestra was 
soon agumented by unconscious sounds from the porch. 
As the first streak of dawn crept into the East, a shrill whistle rang 
through the clearing. Up came Sharp’s head from the pillow. Another 
whistle answered from behind the cabin, another from across the river, and 
in a moment the air was filled with the song of the Cardinal from every 
point of the compass. Not more than ten feet from our heads grew a small 
Hawthorn bush some seven or eight feet high. As the dawn brightened 
there was a flash of flame from this bush and a male Cardinal in full splendor 
of plumage proceeded to pour out his soul in song; another lit beside him 
and another and another until not less than seven males were in full song 
in that one bush. Fully fifty were singing at once on that one-acre clearing. 
Seldom have I seen such ecstasy in a man’s face as shown in Sharp’s. 
Not a word or a sound was uttered by anyone while the concert lasted. In 
ten minutes it was all over—the birds had passed on and their singing stopped 
as they passed probably to the important duty of finding breakfast. Only 
the scream of a Jay was to be heard. 
Silently we filed down to the river for a swim before breakfast. “The 
water was cold, but with chattering teeth Sharp said: “This is Lincoln’s 
river and it is an honor and a Joy to have had a dip in the stream we New 
Englanders venerate as his.”’ 
Photograph by Alfred M. Bailey and Fred S, Lodge 
CARDINAL ON ITS NEST 
