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"In summer, when the shawes be shene,

And leaves be large and long,
It is full merry in fair forest

To hear the fowlés' song.
The wood-wele sang, and wolde not cease,

Sitting upon the spray;
So loud, it wakened Robin Hood

In the greenwood where he lay.”

It might almost be said that the birds are all birds of the poets and of no one else, because it is only the poetical temperament that fully responds to them. So true is this, that all the great ornithologists -original namers and biographers of the birds have been poets in deed if not in word. Audubon is a notable case in point, who, if he had not the tongue or pen of the poet, certainly had the eye and ear and heart “the fluid and attaching character and the singleness of purpose, the enthusiasm, the unworldliness, the love, that characterizes the true and divine race of bards.

So had Wilson, though perhaps not in as large a measure ; yet he took fire as only a poet can. While making a journey on foot to Philadelphia, shortly


after landing in this country, he caught sight of the red-headed woodpecker Aitting among the trees - a bird that shows like a tri-colored scarf


the foliage, - and it so kindled his enthusiasm that his life was devoted to the pursuit of the birds from that day. It was a lucky hit. Wilson had already set up as a poet in Scotland, and was still fermenting when the bird met his eye and suggested to his soul a new outlet for its enthusiasm.

The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense is his life - large brained, large lunged, hot, ecstatic, his frame charged with buoyancy and his heart with song. The beautiful vagabonds, endowed with every grace, masters of all climes, and knowing no bounds, - how many human aspirations are realized in their free, holidaylives — and how many suggestions to the poet in their flight and song!

Indeed, is not the bird the original type and teacher of the poet, and do we not demand of the human lark or thrush that he 6 shake out his carols " in the same free and spontaneous manner as his winged prototype? Kingsley has shown how surely the old minnesingers and early ballad-writers have learned of the birds, taking their key-note from the blackbird, or the wood-lark, or the throstle, and giving utterance to a melody as simple and unstudied. Such things as the following were surely caught from the fields or the woods :

“She sat down below a thorn,

Fine flowers in the valley,
And there has she her sweet babe born,
And the green leaves they grow rarely."

Or the best lyric pieces, how like they are to certain bird-songs, — clear, ringing, ecstatic, and suggesting that challenge and triumph which the outpouring of the male bird contains. (Is not the genuine singing, lyrical quality essentially masculine?) Keats and Shelley, perhaps, more notably than any other English poets, have the bird-organization and the piercing wild-bird cry. This of course is not saying that they are the greatest poets, but that they have preeminently the sharp semi-tones of the sparrows and larks.

But when the general reader thinks of the birds of the poets he very naturally calls to mind the renowned birds, the lark and nightingale, Old-World melodists, embalmed in Old-World poetry, but occasionally appearing on these shores, transported in the verse of some callow singer.

The very oldest poets, the towering antique bards, seem to make little mention of the song-birds. They loved better the soaring, swooping birds of prey, the eagle, the ominous birds, the vultures, the storks, and cranes, or the clamorous sea-bird sand the screaming hawks. These suited better the rugged, warlike character of the times and the simple, powerful souls of the singers themselves. Homer must have heard the twittering of the swallows, the cry of the plover,

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