II

Mrs. Walters this morning with more news touching our incoming

neighbors. Whenever I have faced towards this aggregation of unwelcome

individuals, I have beheld it moving towards me as a thick gray

mist, shutting out nature beyond. Perhaps they are approaching

this part of the earth like comet that carries its tail before it,

and I am already enveloped in a disturbing, befogging nebulosity.

There is still no getting the truth, but it appears that they are

a family of consequence in their way--which, of course, may be

a very poor way. Mrs. Margaret Cobb, mother, lately bereaved of

her husband, Joseph Cobb, who fell among the Kentucky boys at the

battle of Buena Vista. A son, Joseph Cobb, now cadet at West Point,

with a desire to die like his father, but destined to die--who

knows?--in a war that may break out in this country about the

negroes.

While not reconciled, I am resigned. The young man when at home

may wish to practise the deadly vocation of an American soldier of

the period over the garden fence at my birds, in which case he and

I could readily fight a duel, and help maintain an honored custom

of the commonwealth. The older daughter will sooner or later turn

loose on my heels one of her pack of blue dogs. If this should

befall me in the spring, and I survive the dog, I could retort

with a dish of strawberries and a copy of "Lalla Rookh"; if in the

fall, with a basket of grapes and Thomson's "Seasons," after which

there would be no further exchange of hostilities. The younger

daughter, being a school-girl, will occasionally have to be subdued

with green apples and salt. The mother could easily give trouble;

or she might be one of those few women to know whom is to know the

best that there is in all this faulty world.

The middle of February. The depths of winter reached. Thoughtful,

thoughtless words--the depths of winter. Everything gone inward

and downward from surface and summit, Nature at low tide. In its

time will come the height of summer, when the tides of life rise

to the tree-tops, or be dashed as silvery insect spray all but to

the clouds. So bleak a season touches my concern for birds, which

never seem quite at home in this world; and the winter has been

most lean and hungry for them. Many snows have fallen--snows that

are as raw cotton spread over their breakfast-table, and cutting

off connection between them and its bounties. Next summer I must

let the weeds grow up in my garden, so that they may have a better

chance for seeds above the stingy level of the universal white. Of

late I have opened a pawnbroker's shop for my hard-pressed brethren

in feathers, lending at a fearful rate of interest; for every

borrowing Lazarus will have to pay me back in due time by monthly

instalments of singing. I shall have mine own again with usury.

But were a man never so usurious, would he not lend a winter seed

for a summer song? Would he refuse to invest his stale crumbs in

an orchestra of divine instruments and a choir of heavenly voices?

And to-day, also, I ordered from a nursery-man more trees of holly,

juniper, and fir, since the storm-beaten cedars will have to come

down. For in Kentucky, when the forest is naked, and every shrub

and hedge-row bare, what would become of our birds in the universal

rigor and exposure of the world if there were no evergreens--nature's

hostelries for the homeless ones? Living in the depths of these,

they can keep snow, ice, and wind at bay; prying eyes cannot watch

them, nor enemies so well draw near; cones or seed or berries are

their store; and in these untrodden chambers each can have the

sacred company of his mate. But wintering here has terrible risks

which few run. Scarcely in autumn have the leaves begun to drop

from their high perches silently downward when the birds begin to

drop away from the bare boughs silently southward. Lo! some morning

the leaves are on the ground, and the birds have vanished. The

species that remain, or that come to us then, wear the hues of

the season, and melt into the tone of Nature's background--blues,

grays, browns, with touches of white on tail and breast and wing

for coming flecks of snow.

Save only him--proud, solitary stranger in our unfriendly land--the

fiery grosbeak. Nature in Kentucky has no wintry harmonies for him.

He could find these only among the tufts of the October sumac, or

in the gum-tree when it stands a pillar of red twilight fire in

the dark November woods, or in the far depths of the crimson sunset

skies, where, indeed, he seems to have been nested, and whence to

have come as a messenger of beauty, bearing on his wings the light

of his diviner home.

With almost everything earthly that he touches this high herald

of the trees is in contrast. Among his kind he is without a peer.

Even when the whole company of summer voyagers have sailed back to

Kentucky, singing and laughing and kissing one another under the

enormous green umbrella of Nature's leaves, he still is beyond them

all in loveliness. But when they have been wafted away again to

brighter skies and to soft islands over the sea, and he is left

alone on the edge of that Northern world which he has dared invade

and inhabit, it is then, amid black clouds and drifting snows,

that the gorgeous cardinal stands forth in the ideal picture of

his destiny. For it is than that his beauty I most conspicuous,

and that Death, lover of the peerless, strikes at him from afar.

So that he retires to the twilight solitude of his wild fortress.

Let him even show his noble head and breast at a slit in its green

window-shades, and a ray flashes from it to the eye of a cat; let

him, as spring comes on, burst out in desperation and mount to the

tree-tops which he loves, and his gleaming red coat betrays him to

the poised hawk as to a distant sharpshooter; in the barn near by

an owl is waiting to do his night marketing at various tender-meat

stalls; and, above all, the eye and heart of man are his diurnal and

nocturnal foe. What wonder if he is so shy, so rare, so secluded,

this flame-colored prisoner in dark-green chambers, who has only

to be seen or heard and Death adjusts an arrow. No vast Southern

swamps or forest of pine here into which he may plunge. If he

shuns man in Kentucky, he must haunt the long lonely river valleys

where the wild cedars grow. If he comes into this immediate

swarming pastoral region, where the people, with ancestral love of

privacy, and not from any kindly thought of him, plant evergreens

around their country homes, he must live under the very guns and

amid the pitfalls of the enemy. Surely, could the first male of

the species have foreseen how, through the generations of his race

to come, both their beauty and their song, which were meant to

announce them to Love, would also announce them to Death, he must

have blanched snow-white with despair and turned as mute as a stone.

Is it this flight from the inescapable just behind that makes the

singing of the red-bird thoughtful and plaintive, and, indeed,

nearly all the wild sounds of nature so like the outcry of the

doomed? He will sit for a long time silent and motionless in the

heart of a cedar, as if absorbed in the tragic memories of his

race. Then, softly, wearily, he will call out to you and to the

whole world: _Peace_.._Peace_.._Peace_.._Peace_.._Peace_..!--the

most melodious sigh that ever issued from the clefts of a dungeon.

For color and form, brilliant singing, his very enemies, and the

bold nature he has never lost, I have long been most interested in

this bird. Every year several pairs make their appearance about

my place. This winter especially I have been feeding a pair; and

there should be finer music in the spring, and a lustier brood in

summer.