never a thing to do except to bathe, feast, and be happy. No
wonder his song was a prophecy of good cheer for the future, for
happiness made up the whole of his past.

The Cardinal was only a yearling, yet his crest flared high, his
beard was crisp and black, and he was a very prodigy in size and
colouring. Fathers of his family that had accomplished many
migrations appeared small beside him, and coats that had been
shed season after season seemed dull compared with his. It was
as if a pulsing heart of flame passed by when he came winging
through the orchard.

Last season the Cardinal had pipped his shell, away to the north,
in that paradise of the birds, the Limberlost. There thousands
of acres of black marsh-muck stretch under summers' sun and
winters' snows. There are darksome pools of murky water, bits of
swale, and high morass. Giants of the forest reach skyward, or,
coated with velvet slime, lie decaying in sun-flecked pools,
while the underbrush is almost impenetrable.

The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild
grape-vines clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading
umbrella-wise over the branches, and their festooned floating
trailers wave as silken fringe in the play of the wind. The
birds loll in the shade, peel bark, gather dried curlers for nest
material, and feast on the pungent fruit. They chatter in swarms
over the wild-cherry trees, and overload their crops with red
haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and mandrake. The alders
around the edge draw flocks in search of berries, and the marsh
grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters. The muck is