"A bluebird sings on the leafless spray,
Hey-ho, winter will go!"
He arrived that year very early in the season. It was about the
twelfth of February that I first heard his plaintive note far up in
the maple tree. Could it be Mr. Bluebird, I questioned as I hastened
to the window opera-glass in hand? Yes, there he stood, not too
comfortably dressed I am afraid, in his blue cap, sky-blue overcoat and
russet-brown vest edged with a trimming of feathers soft and white.
There had been a slight fall of snow during the night, and I fancied,
from his pensive note, that he was chiding himself for leaving the
Mississippi Valley, to which he had journeyed at the first touch of
wintry weather in Illinois.
"If it wasn't for the snowdrops, the crocus, the violets, and
daffodils," he was saying in a faint sweet warble, "I'd linger longer
in the South than I do. They, dear little things, never know, down in
their frozen beds, that winter will soon give place to spring till
they hear my voice, and so, no matter how bleak the winds or how gray
the sky, I sing to let them know I have arrived, my presence heralding
the birth of spring and death of winter. It well repays me, I am sure,
when, in March under the warm kisses of the sun their pretty heads
appear above the ground, and, smiling back at him, out they spring
dressed in their new mantles of purple and yellow."
At this moment from the topmost branch of an adjoining maple came a
low, sweet, tremulous note very much indeed like a sigh.
"Ah," said he, surveying the new-comer with flattering attention, "that
is the young daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird who nested in Lincoln
Park last summer. For some reason they decided not to go South this
season but remained in Chicago all winter. She strikes me as being a
very pretty young-lady bird, and certainly it will be no more than
friendly upon my part to fly over there and inquire how she and her
family withstood the rigors of a Northern winter."
From Miss Bluebird's demeanor, when he alighted upon a twig beside
her, I concluded she greatly disapproved of his unceremonius approach.
Prettily lifting her wings and lightly trembling upon her perch she
made as if to fly away, but instead only changed her position a
little, coyly turning aside her head while listening to what the young
gentleman had to say.
Encouraged by this Mr. Bluebird's manner became very friendly indeed,
and very soon, reassured by his respectful demeanor and sentiments
uttered in a voice of oh, such touching sweetness, the young-lady bird
unbent, responding at length in a very amiable manner, I noticed, to
her companion's remarks.
The conversation which followed may have been very commonplace or very
bright and sparkling, but as there is always an undercurrent of sadness
in the bluebird's note, and an air of pensiveness expressed in its
actions, one could only conjecture what the tenor of this one might be.
The pair, to my intense satisfaction, the next day met again in the top
of the maple tree exchanging confidences in low, tremulous strains
of surpassing sweetness, uneasily shifting their stations from time
to time, lifting their wings, as is their pretty habit, and trembling
lightly upon their perches as though about to rise and fly away.
The following morning, which was the fourteenth day of February, Mr.
Bluebird's manner when he greeted his new acquaintance appeared to
offend her very much. She was cold and distant, whether from maidenly
coyness or a laudable desire to check his too confident, proprietorship
sort of air, who can say? In no way daunted, that gay bachelor pressed
his suit warmly, picturing in tones of peculiar tenderness the snug
little home they would establish together, what a devoted husband
he would be, attentive, submissive, following her directions in all
things. Miss Bluebird shook her head.
It was all very well, she replied, for him to talk of poetry and
romance, but he knew well enough that upon her would devolve all the
serious cares of life. While he would be very active in hunting for
tenements, submitting, no doubt, to her choice, was it not the custom
of all the Mr. Bluebirds to fly ahead in quest of material, gayly
singing, while their mates selected and carried and builded the nest?
What poetry would there be in life for her, she would like to know,
under such circumstances, and then, when all was done, to sit for hours
and days on the eggs she had laid in order to rear a brood. Oh, no! She
was not ready to give up all the pleasures of life yet, and then--and
then--Miss Bluebird lowered her eyes and stammered something about
being too young to leave her mother.
What argument Mr. Bluebird brought to bear against this latter reason
for rejecting his suit I cannot say, but being a wise bird he only
stifled a laugh behind his foot and continued more warmly to press
it. Again and again he followed her when she took a short flight,
quavering _tru-al-ly_, _tru-al-ly_, no doubt telling her of the many
good qualities of the Mr. Bluebirds, how devoted they were, how they
ever relied upon the good judgment and practical turn of their mates,
never directing, never disputing, but by cheerful song and gesture
encouraging and applauding everything they did. Then, too, unlike some
other husbands that wear feathers, they regularly fed their mates when
sitting upon the nest and did their duty afterward in helping to rear
the young.
As he talked Miss Bluebird's coldness gradually melted till at length
she coyly accepted his invitation to descend and examine a certain
tenement which, hoping for her acceptance, he had the day previous, he
said, been to view.
"We can at least look it over," he said artfully, noticing the
elevation of her bill at the word "acceptance," "though of course it
is too early in the season to occupy it. Mr. Purple Martin lived in it
last year and----"
Miss Bluebird interrupted him, a trifle haughtily, I thought.
"Is the tenement you speak of in a stump, fence hole, or tree cavity?"
she inquired.
"Neither," he hastened to answer; "it is a box erected by the owner of
these premises."
"Ah," said she, graciously, "that is another matter," and very amiably
spread her wings and descended upon the roof of the box in question.
"You see," explained Mr. Bluebird, "the man who put up this dwelling
knew what he was about. He had no intention the sparrows should occupy
it, so he built it without any doorsteps or piazza, as you have no
doubt remarked."
"Really," replied Miss Bluebird, "in my opinion that is a great defect.
A house without doorsteps----"
"Is just what certain families want," interrupted Mr. Bluebird,
smilingly. "Our enemies, the sparrows, cannot fly directly into a nest
hole or box like this, as we can, but must have a perch upon which
first to alight. It is for that reason, my dear, this house was built
without doorsteps. No sparrow families are wanted here."
Miss Bluebird at this juncture thought it proper to be overcome with a
feeling of shyness, and could not be prevailed upon to enter the box.
More than once her companion flew in and returned to her side, singing
praises of its coziness as a place of abode.
"With new furnishings it will do capitally," said he; "we might even
make the Purple Martins' nest do with a little----"
Miss Bluebird's bill at once went up into the air.
"If there is anything I detest," said she, scornfully, "it is old
furniture, especially second-hand beds. If that is the best you have to
offer a prospective bride, Mr. Bluebird, I will bid you good-day," and
the haughty young creature prettily fluttered her wings as if about to
fly off and leave him.
"Do not go," he pleaded; "if this house does not please you I have
others to offer," and Miss Bluebird, moved apparently by his tender
strains, sweetly said _tru-al-ly_ and condescended to fly down and
enter the box.
It was scarcely a minute ere she reappeared, and, flying at once to her
favorite branch in the maple tree, called to him to follow. A scrap
of paper, woven into his nest by the Purple Martin the past season,
fluttered to the ground as she emerged from the box, and while the pair
exchanged vows of love and constancy up in the maple tree, I picked it
up and saw, not without marveling at the sagacity of Mr. Bluebird, who
probably had dragged it into sight, a heart faintly drawn in red ink,
and below it the words:
"_Thou art my valentine!_"