b

infinitely rich and various. It is a garrulou polyglot when it chooses to be, and there a dash of the clown and the buffoon in it nature which too often flavours its whe performance, especially in captivity; but its native haunts, and when its love-passio is upon it, the serious and even grand si of its character comes out. In Alabama a Florida its song may be heard all throug the sultry summer night, at times low an plaintive, then full and strong. A friend Thoreau and a careful observer, who ha resided in Florida, tells me that this bird ja a much more marvellous singer than it ha the credit of being. He describes a habit t has of singing on the wing on moonligi nights, that would be worth going Southa hear. Starting from a low bush, it moun in the air, and continues its flight apparent to an altitude of several hundred feet, r maining on the wing a number of minute. and pouring out its song with the utmo clearness and abandon - -a slowly rise musical rocket that fills the night air wi harmonious sounds. Here are both toe la and nightingale in one; and if poets wo as plentiful down South as they are in Ne England, we should have heard of this son long ago, and had it celebrated in appropria

verse. But so far only one Southern poet, Wilde, has accredited the bird this song. This he has done in the following admirable sonnet :

"TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

"Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool, Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe? Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe. Wit-sophist-songster-Yorick of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school, To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,

Arch scoffer, and mad Abbot of Misrule! For such thou art by day-but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain,

As if thou didst in this, thy moonlight song, Like to the melancholy Jacques, complain, Musing on falsehood, violence, and wrong, And sighing for thy, motley coat again."

Aside from this sonnet, the mocking-bird has got into poetical literature, so far as I know, in only one notable instance, and that in the page of a poet where we would least expect to find him-a bard who habitually bends his ear only to the musical surge and rhythmus of total nature, and is as little wont to turn aside for any special beauties

or points as the most austere of the ancient masters. I refer to Walt Whitman's "Out of the cradle endlessly rocking," in which the mocking-bird plays a part. The poet's treatment of the bird is entirely ideal, and eminently characteristic. That is to say, it is altogether poetical and not at all ornithological; yet it contains a rendering or free translation of a bird-song-the nocturn of the mocking-bird, singing and calling through the night for its lost mate-that I consider quite unmatched in our literature.

"Once, Paumanok,

When the snows had melted, and the Fifthmonth grass was growing,

Up this sea-shore, in some briers,

Two guests from Alabama-two together,

And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown,

And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,

And every day the she-bird, crouched on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,

And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them,

Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

Shine! Shine! Shine!

Pour down your warmth, great Sun!

While we bask-we two together.

Two together!

Winds blow South, or winds blow North,
Day come white, or night come black,

Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,

If we two but keep together.

Till of a sudden,

May be killed, unknown to her mate,

One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the

nest,

Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,

Nor ever appeared again.

And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound

of the sea,

And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather,

Over the hoarse surging of the sea,

Or flitting from brier to brier by day,

I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one,

the he-bird,

The solitary guest from Alabama.

Blow! blow! blow!

Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok's shore! I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.

Yes, when the stars glistened,

All night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake,

Down, almost amid the slapping waves,

Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.

22

BIRDS AND POETS.

He called on his mate:

He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.

Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close,

But my love soothes not me, not me.

Low hangs the moon-it rose late.

Oh it is lagging—oh I think it is heavy with love, with love.

Oh madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, With love-with love.

O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?

What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Loud! loud! loud!

Loud I call to you, my love!

High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves;
Surely you must know who is here, is here;
You must know who I am, my love.

Low hanging moon!

What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
Oh it is the shape, the shape of my mate!
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.