LITMIR.BIZ

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The throstle with his note so true,

       The wren with little quill;

       The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,

       The plain song cuckoo gray,

       Whose note full many a man doth mark,

       And dares not answer nay."

      So far as external appearances are concerned,—form, plumage, grace of manner,—no one ever had a less promising subject than had Trowbridge in the "Pewee." This bird, if not the plainest dressed, is the most unshapely in the woods. It is stiff and abrupt in its manners and sedentary in its habits, sitting around all day, in the dark recesses of the woods, on the dry twigs and branches, uttering now and then its plaintive cry, and "with many a flirt and flutter" snapping up its insect game.

      The pewee belongs to quite a large family of birds, all of whom have strong family traits, and who are not the most peaceable and harmonious of the sylvan folk. They are pugnacious, harsh-voiced, angular in form and movement, with flexible tails and broad, flat, bristling beaks that stand to the face at the angle of a turn-up nose, and most of them wear a black cap pulled well down over their eyes. Their heads are large, neck and legs short, and elbows sharp. The wild Irishman of them all is the great crested flycatcher, a large, leather-colored or sandy-complexioned bird that prowls through the woods, uttering its harsh, uncanny note and waging fierce warfare upon its fellows. The exquisite of the family, and the braggart of the orchard, is the kingbird, a bully that loves to strip the feathers off its more timid neighbors such as the bluebird, that feeds on the stingless bees of the hive, the drones, and earns the reputation of great boldness by teasing large hawks, while it gives a wide berth to little ones.

      The best beloved of them all is the phoebe-bird, one of the firstlings of the spring, of whom so many of our poets have made affectionate mention.

      The wood pewee is the sweetest voiced, and, notwithstanding the ungracious things I have said of it and of its relations, merits to the full all Trowbridge's pleasant fancies. His poem is indeed a very careful study of the bird and its haunts, and is good poetry as well as good ornithology:—

      "The listening Dryads hushed the woods;

       The boughs were thick, and thin and few

       The golden ribbons fluttering through;

       Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods

       The lindens lifted to the blue;

       Only a little forest-brook

       The farthest hem of silence shook;

       When in the hollow shades I heard—

       Was it a spirit or a bird?

       Or, strayed from Eden, desolate,

       Some Peri calling to her mate,

       Whom nevermore her mate would cheer?

       'Pe-ri! pe-ri! peer!'

       . . . . . . . .

       "To trace it in its green retreat

       I sought among the boughs in vain;

       And followed still the wandering strain,

       So melancholy and so sweet,

       The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain.

       'T was now a sorrow in the air,

       Some nymph's immortalized despair

       Haunting the woods and waterfalls;

       And now, at long, sad intervals,

       Sitting unseen in dusky shade,

       His plaintive pipe some fairy played,

       With long-drawn cadence thin and clear,—

       'Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!'

       "Long-drawn and clear its closes were—

       As if the hand of Music through

       The sombre robe of Silence drew

       A thread of golden gossamer;

       So pure a flute the fairy blew.

       Like beggared princes of the wood,

       In silver rags the birches stood;

       The hemlocks, lordly counselors,

       Were dumb; the sturdy servitors,

       In beechen jackets patched and gray,

       Seemed waiting spellbound all the day

       That low, entrancing note to hear,—

       'Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!'

       "I quit the search, and sat me down

       Beside the brook, irresolute,

       And watched a little bird in suit

       Of sober olive, soft and brown,

       Perched in the maple branches, mute;

       With greenish gold its vest was fringed,

       Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged,

       With ivory pale its wings were barred,

       And its dark eyes were tender-starred.

       "Dear bird," I said, "what is thy name?"

       And thrice the mournful answer came,

       So faint and far, and yet so near,—

       'Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!'

       "For so I found my forest bird,—

       The pewee of the loneliest woods,

       Sole singer in these solitudes,

       Which never robin's whistle stirred,

       Where never bluebird's plume intrudes.

       Quick darting through the dewy morn,

       The redstart trilled his twittering horn

       And vanished in thick boughs; at even,

       Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven,

       The high notes of the lone wood thrush

       Fell on the forest's holy hush;

       But thou all day complainest here,—

       'Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!'"

      Emerson's best natural history poem is the "Humble-Bee,"—a poem as good in its way as Burns's poem on the mouse; but his later poem, "The Titmouse," has many of the same qualities, and cannot fail to be acceptable to both poet and naturalist.

      The chickadee is indeed a truly Emersonian bird, and the poet shows him to be both a hero and a philosopher. Hardy, active, social, a winter bird no less than a summer, a defier of both frost and heat, lover of the pine-tree, and diligent searcher after truth in the shape of eggs and larvae of insects, preëminently a New England bird, clad in black and ashen gray, with a note the most cheering and reassuring to be heard in our January woods,—I know of none other of our birds so well calculated to captivate the Emersonian muse.

      Emerson himself is a northern hyperborean genius,—a winter bird with a clear, saucy, cheery call, and not a passionate summer songster. His lines have little melody to the ear, but they have the vigor and distinctness of all pure and compact things. They are like the needles of the pine—"the snow loving pine"—more than the emotional foliage of the deciduous trees, and the titmouse becomes them well:—

      "Up and away for life! be fleet!—

       The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,

       Sings in my ears, my hands are stones,

       Curdles the blood to the marble bones,

       Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense,

       And hems in life with narrowing fence.

       Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,—

       The punctual stars will vigil keep,—

       Embalmed by purifying cold;

       The wind shall sing their dead march old,

       The snow is no ignoble

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