times in a day; and with sleek feathers and lowered crest, gazed
at her in silent worshipful adoration.

Up and down the river bank he flamed and rioted. In the sumac he
uttered not the faintest "Chip!" that might attract attention.
He was so anxious to be inconspicuous that he appeared only half
his real size. Always on leaving he gave her a tender little
peck and ran his beak the length of her wing--a characteristic
caress that he delighted to bestow on her.

If he felt that he was disturbing her too often, he perched on
the dogwood and sang for life, and love, and happiness. His
music was in a minor key now. The high, exultant, ringing notes
of passion were mellowed and subdued. He was improvising cradle
songs and lullabies. He was telling her how he loved her, how he
would fight for her, how he was watching over her, how he would
signal if any danger were approaching, how proud he was of her,
what a perfect nest she had built, how beautiful he thought her
eggs, what magnificent babies they would produce. Full of
tenderness, melting with love, liquid with sweetness, the
Cardinal sang to his patient little brooding mate: "So dear! So
dear!"

The farmer leaned on his corn-planter and listened to him
intently. "I swanny! If he hasn't changed his song again, an'
this time I'm blest if I can tell what he's saying!" Every time
the Cardinal lifted his voice, the clip of the corn-planter
ceased, and Abram hung on the notes and studied them over.

One night he said to his wife: "Maria, have you been noticin' the