change he could invent, he sent for the last time his prophetic
message, "Wet year! Wet year!"



Chapter 3

"Come here! Come here!" entreated the Cardinal


He felt that his music was not reaching his standard as he burst
into this new song. He was almost discouraged. No way seemed
open to him but flight to the Limberlost, and he so disdained the
swamp that love-making would lose something of its greatest charm
if he were driven there for a mate. The time seemed ripe for
stringent measures, and the Cardinal was ready to take them; but
how could he stringently urge a little mate that would not come
on his imploring invitations? He listlessly pecked at the
berries and flung abroad an inquiring "Chip!" With just an atom
of hope, he frequently mounted to his choir-loft and issued an
order that savoured far more of a plea, "Come here! Come here!"
and then, leaning, he listened intently to the voice of the
river, lest he fail to catch the faintest responsive "Chook!" it
might bear.

He could hear the sniffling of carp wallowing beside the bank. A
big pickerel slashed around, breakfasting on minnows. Opposite
the sumac, the black bass, with gamy spring, snapped up, before
it struck the water, every luckless, honey-laden insect that fell
from the feast of sweets in a blossom-whitened wild crab. The