Should he, the proudest, most magnificent of cardinals, be
compelled to go seeking a mate like any common bird? Perish the
thought!

He went to the river to bathe. After finding a spot where the
water flowed crystal-clear over a bed of white limestone, he
washed until he felt that he could be no cleaner. Then the
Cardinal went to his favourite sun-parlour, and stretching on a
limb, he stood his feathers on end, and sunned, fluffed and
prinked until he was immaculate.

On the tip-top antler of the old stag sumac, he perched and
strained until his jetty whiskers appeared stubby. He poured out
a tumultuous cry vibrant with every passion raging in him. He
caught up his own rolling echoes and changed and varied them. He
improvised, and set the shining river ringing, "Wet year! Wet
year!"

He whistled and whistled until all birdland and even mankind
heard, for the farmer paused at his kitchen door, with his pails
of foaming milk, and called to his wife:

"Hear that, Maria! Jest hear it! I swanny, if that bird doesn't
stop predictin' wet weather, I'll get so scared I won't durst put
in my corn afore June. They's some birds like killdeers an'
bobwhites 'at can make things pretty plain, but I never heard a
bird 'at could jest speak words out clear an' distinct like that
fellow. Seems to come from the river bottom. B'lieve I'll jest
step down that way an' see if the lower field is ready for the
plow yet."