Rural sounds, the voices, the language of the wild creatures, as heard
by the naturalist, belong to, and are in concord with, the country only.
Our sight, our smell may perhaps be deceived for an interval by
conservatories, horticultural arts, and bowers of sweets; but our
hearing can in no way be beguiled by any semblance of what is heard in
the grove or the field. The hum, the murmur, the medley of the mead, is
peculiarly its own, admits of no imitation, and the voices of our birds
convey particular intimation, and distinctly notify the various periods
of the year with an accuracy as certain as they are detailed in our
calendars. The season of spring is always announced as approaching by
the notes of the rookery, by the jingle or wooing accents of the dark
frequenters of the trees; and that time having passed away, these
contentions and cadences are no longer heard. The cuckoo then comes and
informs us that spring has arrived; that he has journeyed to see us,
borne by gentle gales in sunny days; that fragrant flowers are in the
copse and the mead, and all things telling of gratulation and of joy;
the children mark this well-known sound, spring out, and cuckoo! cuckoo!
as they gambol down the lane; the very plow-boy bids him welcome in
early morn. It is hardly spring without the cuckoo’s song; and, having
told his tale, he has voice for no more—is silent or away. Then comes
the dark, swift-winged marten, glancing through the air, that seems
afraid to visit our uncertain clime; he comes, though late, and hurries
through his business here eager again to depart, all day long in
agitation and precipitate flight. The bland zephyrs of the spring have
no charms for them; but basking and careering in the sultry gleams of
June and July, they associate in throngs, and, screaming, dash round the
steeple or the ruined tower, to serenade their nesting mates; and glare
and heat are in their train. When the fervor of summer ceases, this bird
of the sun will depart. The evening robin, from the summit of some
leafless bough or projecting point, tells us that autumn is come, and
brings matured fruits, chilly airs, and sober hours; and he, the lonely
minstrel that now sings, is understood by all. These four birds thus
indicate a separate season, have no interference with the intelligence
of the other, nor could they be transposed without the loss of all the
meaning they convey, which no contrivance of art could supply; and, by
long association, they have become identified with the period, and in
peculiar accordance with the time.