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.



III


March has gone like its winds. The other night as I lay awake with
that yearning which often beats within, there fell from the upper
air the notes of the wild gander as he wedged his way onward by