LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Melts around thy flight;

       Like a star of heaven,

       In the broad daylight

       Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

       "Keen as are the arrows

       Of that silver sphere,

       Whose intense lamp narrows

       In the white dawn clear,

       Until we hardly see—we feel that it is there;

       "All the earth and air

       With thy voice is loud,

       As, when Night is bare,

       From one lonely cloud

       The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed."

      Wordsworth has written two poems upon the lark, in one of which he calls the bird "pilgrim of the sky." This is the one quoted by Emerson in "Parnassus." Here is the concluding stanza:—

       "Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

       A privacy of glorious light is thine,

       Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

       Of harmony, with instinct more divine;

       Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam,

       True to the kindred points of heaven and home."

      The other poem I give entire:—

       "Up with me! up with me into the clouds!

       For thy song, Lark, is strong;

       Up with me, up with me into the clouds!

       Singing, singing,

       With clouds and sky about thee ringing,

       Lift me, guide me till I find

       That spot which seems so to thy mind!

       "I have walked through wilderness dreary,

       And to-day my heart is weary;

       Had I now the wings of a Faery

       Up to thee would I fly.

       There is madness about thee, and joy divine

       In that song of thine;

       Lift me, guide me high and high

       To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

       "Joyous as morning

       Thou art laughing and scorning;

       Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,

       And, though little troubled with sloth,

       Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loth

       To be such a traveler as I.

       Happy, happy Liver!

       With a soul as strong as a mountain river,

       Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,

       Joy and jollity be with us both!

       "Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,

       Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;

       But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,

       As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

       I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

       And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done."

      But better than either—better and more than a hundred pages—is Shakespeare's simple line,—

       "Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,"

      or John Lyly's, his contemporary,—

       "Who is't now we hear?

       None but the lark so shrill and clear;

       Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,

       The morn not waking till she sings."

      We have no well-known pastoral bird in the Eastern States that answers to the skylark. The American pipit or titlark and the shore lark, both birds of the far north, and seen in the States only in fall and winter, are said to sing on the wing in a similar strain. Common enough in our woods are two birds that have many of the habits and manners of the lark—the water-thrush and the golden-crowned thrush, or oven-bird. They are both walkers, and the latter frequently sings on the wing up aloft after the manner of the lark. Starting from its low perch, it rises in a spiral flight far above the tallest trees, and breaks out in a clear, ringing, ecstatic song, sweeter and more richly modulated than the skylark's, but brief, ceasing almost before you have noticed it; whereas the skylark goes singing away after you have forgotten him and returned to him half a dozen times.

      But on the Great Plains, of the West there; is a bird whose song resembles the skylark's quite closely and is said to be not at all inferior. This is Sprague's pipit, sometimes called the Missouri skylark, an excelsior songster, which from far up in the transparent blue rains down its notes for many minutes together. It is, no doubt, destined to figure in the future poetical literature of the West.

      Throughout the northern and eastern parts of the Union the lark would find a dangerous rival in the bobolink, a bird that has no European prototype, and no near relatives anywhere, standing quite alone, unique, and, in the qualities of hilarity and musical tintinnabulation, with a song unequaled. He has already a secure place in general literature, having been laureated by no less a poet than Bryant, and invested with a lasting human charm in the sunny page of Irving, and is the only one of our songsters, I believe, that the mockingbird cannot parody or imitate. He affords the most marked example of exuberant pride, and a glad, rollicking, holiday spirit, that can be seen among our birds. Every note expresses complacency and glee. He is a beau of the first pattern, and, unlike any other bird of my acquaintance, pushes his gallantry to the point of wheeling gayly into the train of every female that comes along, even after the season of courtship is over and the matches are all settled; and when she leads him on too wild a chase, he turns, lightly about and breaks out with a song is precisely analogous to a burst of gay and self-satisfied laughter, as much as to say, "Ha! ha! ha! I must have my fun, Miss Silverthimble, thimble, thimble, if I break every heart in the meadow, see, see, see!"

      At the approach of the breeding season the bobolink undergoes a complete change; his form changes, his color changes, his flight changes. From mottled brown or brindle he becomes black and white, earning, in some localities, the shocking name of "skunk bird;" his small, compact form becomes broad and conspicuous, and his ordinary flight is laid aside for a mincing, affected gait, in which he seems to use only the very tips of his wings. It is very noticeable what a contrast he presents to his mate at this season, not only in color but in manners, she being as shy and retiring as he is forward and hilarious. Indeed, she seems disagreeably serious and indisposed to any fun or jollity, scurrying away at his approach, and apparently annoyed at every endearing word and look. It is surprising that all this parade of plumage and tinkling of cymbals should be gone through with and persisted in to please a creature so coldly indifferent as she really seems to be. If Robert O'Lincoln has been stimulated into acquiring this holiday uniform and this musical gift by the approbation of Mrs. Robert, as Darwin, with his sexual selection principle, would have us believe, then there must have been a time when the females of this tribe were not quite so chary of their favors as they are now. Indeed, I never knew a female bird of any kind that did not appear utterly indifferent to the charms of voice and plumage that the male birds are so fond of displaying. But I am inclined to believe that the males think only of themselves and of outshining each other, and not at all of the approbation of their mates, as, in an analogous case in a higher species, it is well known whom the females dress for, and whom they want to kill with envy!

      I know of no other song-bird that expresses so much self-consciousness and vanity, and comes so near being an ornithological coxcomb. The red-bird, the yellowbird, the indigo-bird, the oriole, the cardinal grosbeak, and others, all birds of brilliant plumage and musical ability, seem quite unconscious of self, and neither by tone nor act challenge the admiration of the beholder.

      By the time the bobolink reaches

Скачать книгу