The Birds of Spring

by Washington Irving

　　My quiet residence in the country, aloof from fashion, politics, and themoney market, leaves me rather at a loss for important occupation, anddrives me to the study of nature, and other low pursuits. Having fewneighbors, also, on whom to keep a watch, and exercise my habits ofobservation, I am fain to amuse myself with prying into the domesticconcerns and peculiarities of the animals around me; and, during thepresent season, have derived considerable entertainment from certainsociable little birds, almost the only visitors we have, during thisearly part of the year.Those who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible of thedelightful influences that accompany the earliest indications of spring;and of these, none are more delightful than the first notes of thebirds. There is one modest little sad-colored bird, much resembling awren, which came about the house just on the skirts of winter, when nota blade of grass was to be seen, and when a few prematurely warm dayshad given a flattering foretaste of soft weather. He sang early in thedawning, long before sun-rise, and late in the evening, just before theclosing in of night, his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true, he sangoccasionally throughout the day; but at these still hours, his song wasmore remarked. He sat on a leafless tree, just before the window, andwarbled forth his notes, free and simple, but singularly sweet, withsomething of a plaintive tone, that heightened their effect. The firstmorning that he was heard, was a joyous one among the young folks of myhousehold. The long, deathlike sleep of winter was at an end; naturewas once more awakening; they now promised themselves the immediateappearance of buds and blossoms. I was reminded of the tempest-tossedcrew of Columbus, when, after their long dubious voyage, the field birdscame singing round the ship, though still far at sea, rejoicing themwith the belief of the immediate proximity of land. A sharp return ofwinter almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the hilarity ofthe household; yet still he poured forth, now and then, a few plaintivenotes, between the frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshinebetween wintry clouds.I have consulted my book of ornithology in vain, to find out the nameof this kindly little bird, who certainly deserves honor and favor farbeyond his modest pretensions. He comes like the lowly violet, the mostunpretending, but welcomest of flowers, breathing the sweet promise ofthe early year.Another of our feathered visitors, who follows close upon the steps ofwinter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or Phoebe-bird; for he is called byeach of these names, from a fancied resemblance to the sound of hismonotonous note. He is a sociable little being, and seeks the habitationof man. A pair of them have built beneath my porch, and have rearedseveral broods there for two years past, their nest being neverdisturbed. They arrive early in the spring, just when the crocus andthe snow-drop begin to peep forth. Their first chirp spreads gladnessthrough the house. "The Phoebe-birds have come!" is heard on all sides;they are welcomed back like members of the family, and speculations aremade upon where they have been, and what countries they have seenduring their long absence. Their arrival is the more cheering, as it ispronounced, by the old weather-wise people of the country, the sure signthat the severe frosts are at an end, and that the gardener may resumehis labors with confidence.About this time, too, arrives the blue-bird, so poetically yet trulydescribed by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole landscape.You hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably approaches yourhabitation, and takes up his residence in your vicinity. But why shouldI attempt to describe him, when I have Wilson's own graphic verses toplace him before the reader?

　　When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,Green meadows and brown furrowed fields re-appearing:The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.The loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;Then warm glows the sunshine, and warm glows the weather;The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,And spice-wood and sassafras budding together;O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair,Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air,That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;He snaps up destroyers, wherever they be,And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,The worms from the webs where they riot and welter;His song and his services freely are ours,And all that he asks is, in summer a shelter.The ploughman is pleased when he gleams in his train,Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him.The slow lingering school-boys forget they'll be chid,While gazing intent, as he warbles before them,In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

　　The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals theEuropean lark, in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink, as he iscommonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year, which,in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May, sooften given by the poets. With us, it begins about the middle of May,and lasts until nearly the middle of June. Earlier than this, winter isapt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties ofthe year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, anddissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, nature is inall her freshness and fragrance: "the rains are over and gone, theflowers appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come,and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land." The trees are now intheir fullest foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with theclustered flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-briarand the wild rose; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms; whilethe young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and the cherryto glow, among the green leaves.This is the chosen season of revelry of the Boblink. He comes amidst thepomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility andenjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosomsof the freshest and sweetest meadows; and is most in song when theclover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or onsome long flaunting weed; and as he rises and sinks with the breeze,pours forth a succession of rich tinkling notes; crowding one uponanother, like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing thesame rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of atree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutterstremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his ownmusic. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his paramour; always in fullsong, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the sameappearance of intoxication and delight.Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Boblink was the envy ofmy boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetestseason of the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the ruralfeeling throbbed in every bosom; but when I, luckless urchin! was doomedto be mewed up, during the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, aschool-room. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flewby in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, howI envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no hateful school; nothing butholiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then moreversed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the words of Logan tothe cuckoo:

　　Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy note,No winter in thy year.Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee;We'd make, on joyful wing,Our annual visit round the globe,Companions of the spring!

　　Farther observation and experience have given me a different idea ofthis little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to impart, forthe benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the sameunqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged. I have shown himonly as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of hiscareer, when he in a manner devoted himself to elegant pursuitsand enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, andsensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred frominjury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and themerest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. But mark thedifference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, andthe spring fades into summer, his notes cease to vibrate on the ear. Hegradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical andprofessional suit of black, assumes a russet or rather dusty garb, andenters into the gross enjoyments of common, vulgar birds. He becomes abon-vivant, a mere gourmand; thinking of nothing but good cheer, andgormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses on which he lately swung,and chaunted so musically. He begins to think there is nothing like "thejoys of the table," if I may be allowed to apply that convivial phraseto his indulgences. He now grows discontented with plain, every-dayfare, and sets out on a gastronomical tour, in search of foreignluxuries. He is to be found in myriads among the reeds of the Delaware,banqueting on their seeds; grows corpulent with good feeding, and soonacquires the unlucky renown of the ortolan. Whereever he goes, pop! pop!pop! the rusty firelocks of the country are cracking on every side;he sees his companions falling by the thousands around him; he isthe reed-bird, the much-sought-for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanianepicure.Does he take warning and reform? Not he! He wings his flight stillfarther south, in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorginghimself in the rice swamps; filling himself with rice almost tobursting; he can hardly fly for corpulency. Last stage of his career,we hear of him spitted by dozens, and served up on the table of thegourmand, the most vaunted of southern dainties, the rice-bird of theCarolinas.Such is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally sensualand persecuted Boblink. It contains a moral, worthy the attention of alllittle birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those refinedand intellectual pursuits, which raised him to so high a pitch ofpopularity, during the early part of his career; but to eschew alltendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence, which brought thismistaken little bird to an untimely end.Which is all at present, from the well-wisher of little boys and littlebirds,GEOFFREY CRAYON.

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *