The Song of the Cardinal


by

Gene Stratton-Porter




IN LOVING TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER

MARK STRATTON


"For him every work of God manifested a new and heretofore
unappreciated loveliness."



CONTENTS

  1.  "Good cheer! Good cheer!" exulted the Cardinal
  2.  "Wet year! Wet year!" prophesied the Cardinal
  3.  "Come here! Come here!" entreated the Cardinal
  4.  "So dear! So dear!" crooned the Cardinal
  5.  "See here! See here!" demanded the Cardinal



Chapter 1

"Good cheer! Good cheer!" exulted the Cardinal


He darted through the orange orchard searching for slugs for his
breakfast, and between whiles he rocked on the branches and rang over
his message of encouragement to men.  The song of the Cardinal was
overflowing with joy, for this was his holiday, his playtime.  The
southern world was filled with brilliant sunshine, gaudy flowers, an
abundance of fruit, myriads of insects, and 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 alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers,
whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.

Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the
bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the
honey-laden trumpets.  The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees is
vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the
bee-birds feast to gluttony.  The fetid odours of the swamp draw
insects in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit
of them.

Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats.  Snakes sun on the bushes.
The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they
cross the lagoons.  Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs.  Frogs take
graceful leaps from pool to pool.  Everything native to that section of
the country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the
Limberlost; but above all the birds.

Dainty green warblers nest in its tree-tops, and red-eyed vireos choose
a location below.  It is the home of bell-birds, finches, and thrushes.
There are flocks of blackbirds, grackles, and crows.  Jays and catbirds
quarrel constantly, and marsh-wrens keep up never-ending chatter.
Orioles swing their pendent purses from the branches, and with the
tanagers picnic on mulberries and insects.  In the evening, night-hawks
dart on silent wing; whippoorwills set up a plaintive cry that they
continue far into the night; and owls revel in moonlight and rich
hunting.  At dawn, robins wake the echoes of each new day with the
admonition, "Cheer up! Cheer up!" and a little later big black vultures
go wheeling through cloudland or hang there, like frozen splashes,
searching the Limberlost and the surrounding country for food.  The
boom of the bittern resounds all day, and above it the rasping scream
of the blue heron, as he strikes terror to the hearts of frogdom; while
the occasional cries of a lost loon, strayed from its flock in northern
migration, fill the swamp with sounds of wailing.

Flashing through the tree-tops of the Limberlost there are birds whose
colour is more brilliant than that of the gaudiest flower lifting its
face to light and air.  The lilies of the mire are not so white as the
white herons that fish among them.  The ripest spray of goldenrod is
not so highly coloured as the burnished gold on the breast of the
oriole that rocks on it.  The jays are bluer than the calamus bed they
wrangle above with throaty chatter.  The finches are a finer purple
than the ironwort.  For every clump of foxfire flaming in the
Limberlost, there is a cardinal glowing redder on a bush above it.
These may not be more numerous than other birds, but their brilliant
colouring and the fearless disposition make them seem so.

The Cardinal was hatched in a thicket of sweetbrier and blackberry.
His father was a tough old widower of many experiences and variable
temper.  He was the biggest, most aggressive redbird in the Limberlost,
and easily reigned king of his kind.  Catbirds, king-birds, and shrikes
gave him a wide berth, and not even the ever-quarrelsome jays plucked
up enough courage to antagonize him.  A few days after his latest
bereavement, he saw a fine, plump young female; and she so filled his
eye that he gave her no rest until she permitted his caresses, and
carried the first twig to the wild rose.  She was very proud to mate
with the king of the Limberlost; and if deep in her heart she felt
transient fears of her lordly master, she gave no sign, for she was a
bird of goodly proportion and fine feather herself.

She chose her location with the eye of an artist, and the judgment of a
nest builder of more experience.  It would be difficult for snakes and
squirrels to penetrate that briery thicket.  The white berry blossoms
scarcely had ceased to attract a swarm of insects before the sweets of
the roses recalled them; by the time they had faded, luscious big
berries ripened within reach and drew food hunters.  She built with far
more than ordinary care.  It was a beautiful nest, not nearly so
carelessly made as those of her kindred all through the swamp.  There
was a distinct attempt at a cup shape, and it really was neatly lined
with dried blades of sweet marsh grass.  But it was in the laying of
her first egg that the queen cardinal forever distinguished herself.
She was a fine healthy bird, full of love and happiness over her first
venture in nest-building, and she so far surpassed herself on that
occasion she had difficulty in convincing any one that she was
responsible for the result.

Indeed, she was compelled to lift beak and wing against her mate in
defense of this egg, for it was so unusually large that he could not be
persuaded short of force that some sneak of the feathered tribe had not
slipped in and deposited it in her absence.  The king felt sure there
was something wrong with the egg, and wanted to roll it from the nest;
but the queen knew her own, and stoutly battled for its protection.
She further increased their prospects by laying three others.  After
that the king made up his mind that she was a most remarkable bird, and
went away pleasure-seeking; but the queen settled to brooding, a
picture of joyous faith and contentment.

Through all the long days, when the heat became intense, and the king
was none too thoughtful of her appetite or comfort, she nestled those
four eggs against her breast and patiently waited.  The big egg was her
treasure.  She gave it constant care.  Many times in a day she turned
it; and always against her breast there was the individual pressure
that distinguished it from the others.  It was the first to hatch, of
course, and the queen felt that she had enough if all the others failed
her; for this egg pipped with a resounding pip, and before the silky
down was really dry on the big terracotta body, the young Cardinal
arose and lustily demanded food.

The king came to see him and at once acknowledged subjugation.  He was
the father of many promising cardinals, yet he never had seen one like
this.  He set the Limberlost echoes rolling with his jubilant
rejoicing.  He unceasingly hunted for the ripest berries and seed.  He
stuffed that baby from morning until night, and never came with food
that he did not find him standing a-top the others calling for more.
The queen was just as proud of him and quite as foolish in her
idolatry, but she kept tally and gave the remainder every other worm in
turn.  They were unusually fine babies, but what chance has merely a
fine baby in a family that possesses a prodigy?  The Cardinal was as
large as any two of the other nestlings, and so red the very down on
him seemed tinged with crimson; his skin and even his feet were red.

He was the first to climb to the edge of the nest and the first to hop
on a limb.  He surprised his parents by finding a slug, and winged his
first flight to such a distance that his adoring mother almost went
into spasms lest his strength might fail, and he would fall into the
swamp and become the victim of a hungry old turtle.  He returned
safely, however; and the king was so pleased he hunted him an unusually
ripe berry, and perching before him, gave him his first language
lesson.  Of course, the Cardinal knew how to cry "Pee" and "Chee" when
he burst his shell; but the king taught him to chip with accuracy and
expression, and he learned that very day that male birds of the
cardinal family always call "Chip," and the females "Chook."  In fact,
he learned so rapidly and was generally so observant, that before the
king thought it wise to give the next lesson, he found him on a limb,
his beak closed, his throat swelling, practising his own rendering of
the tribal calls, "Wheat! Wheat! Wheat!" "Here! Here! Here!" and
"Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!"  This so delighted the king that he whistled
them over and over and helped the youngster all he could.

He was so proud of him that this same night he gave him his first
lesson in tucking his head properly and going to sleep alone.  In a few
more days, when he was sure of his wing strength, he gave him
instructions in flying.  He taught him how to spread his wings and
slowly sail from tree to tree; how to fly in short broken curves, to
avoid the aim of a hunter; how to turn abruptly in air and make a quick
dash after a bug or an enemy.  He taught him the proper angle at which
to breast a stiff wind, and that he always should meet a storm head
first, so that the water would run as the plumage lay.

His first bathing lesson was a pronounced success.  The Cardinal
enjoyed water like a duck.  He bathed, splashed, and romped until his
mother was almost crazy for fear he would attract a watersnake or
turtle; but the element of fear was not a part of his disposition.  He
learned to dry, dress, and plume his feathers, and showed such
remarkable pride in keeping himself immaculate, that although only a
youngster, he was already a bird of such great promise, that many of
the feathered inhabitants of the Limberlost came to pay him a call.

Next, the king took him on a long trip around the swamp, and taught him
to select the proper places to hunt for worms; how to search under
leaves for plant-lice and slugs for meat; which berries were good and
safe, and the kind of weeds that bore the most and best seeds.  He
showed him how to find tiny pebbles to grind his food, and how to
sharpen and polish his beak.

Then he took up the real music lessons, and taught him how to whistle
and how to warble and trill.  "Good Cheer! Good Cheer!" intoned the
king.  "Coo Cher! Coo Cher!" imitated the Cardinal.  These songs were
only studied repetitions, but there was a depth and volume in his voice
that gave promise of future greatness, when age should have developed
him, and experience awakened his emotions.  He was an excellent
musician for a youngster.

He soon did so well in caring for himself, in finding food and in
flight, and grew so big and independent, that he made numerous
excursions alone through the Limberlost; and so impressive were his
proportions, and so aggressive his manner, that he suffered no
molestation.  In fact, the reign of the king promised to end speedily;
but if he feared it he made no sign, and his pride in his wonderful
offspring was always manifest.  After the Cardinal had explored the
swamp thoroughly, a longing for a wider range grew upon him; and day
after day he lingered around the borders, looking across the wide
cultivated fields, almost aching to test his wings in one long, high,
wild stretch of flight.

A day came when the heat of the late summer set the marsh steaming, and
the Cardinal, flying close to the borders, caught the breeze from the
upland; and the vision of broad fields stretching toward the north so
enticed him that he spread his wings, and following the line of trees
and fences as much as possible, he made his first journey from home.
That day was so delightful it decided his fortunes.  It would seem that
the swamp, so appreciated by his kindred, should have been sufficient
for the Cardinal, but it was not.  With every mile he winged his
flight, came a greater sense of power and strength, and a keener love
for the broad sweep of field and forest.  His heart bounded with the
zest of rocking on the wind, racing through the sunshine, and sailing
over the endless panorama of waving corn fields, and woodlands.

The heat and closeness of the Limberlost seemed a prison well escaped,
as on and on he flew in straight untiring flight.  Crossing a field of
half-ripened corn that sloped to the river, the Cardinal saw many birds
feeding there, so he alighted on a tall tree to watch them.  Soon he
decided that he would like to try this new food.  He found a place
where a crow had left an ear nicely laid open, and clinging to the
husk, as he saw the others do, he stretched to his full height and
drove his strong sharp beak into the creamy grain.  After the stifling
swamp hunting, after the long exciting flight, to rock on this swaying
corn and drink the rich milk of the grain, was to the Cardinal his
first taste of nectar and ambrosia.  He lifted his head when he came to
the golden kernel, and chipping it in tiny specks, he tasted and
approved with all the delight of an epicure in a delicious new dish.

Perhaps there were other treats in the next field.  He decided to fly
even farther.  But he had gone only a short distance when he changed
his course and turned to the South, for below him was a long, shining,
creeping thing, fringed with willows, while towering above them were
giant sycamore, maple, tulip, and elm trees that caught and rocked with
the wind; and the Cardinal did not know what it was.  Filled with
wonder he dropped lower and lower.  Birds were everywhere, many flying
over and dipping into it; but its clear creeping silver was a mystery
to the Cardinal.

The beautiful river of poetry and song that the Indians first
discovered, and later with the French, named Ouabache; the winding
shining river that Logan and Me-shin-go-me-sia loved; the only river
that could tempt Wa-ca-co-nah from the Salamonie and Mississinewa; the
river beneath whose silver sycamores and giant maples Chief Godfrey
pitched his campfires, was never more beautiful than on that perfect
autumn day.

With his feathers pressed closely, the Cardinal alighted on a willow,
and leaned to look, quivering with excitement and uttering explosive
"chips"; for there he was, face to face with a big redbird that
appeared neither peaceful nor timid.  He uttered an impudent "Chip" of
challenge, which, as it left his beak, was flung back to him.  The
Cardinal flared his crest and half lifted his wings, stiffening them at
the butt; the bird he was facing did the same.  In his surprise he
arose to his full height with a dexterous little side step, and the
other bird straightened and side-stepped exactly with him.  This was
too insulting for the Cardinal.  Straining every muscle, he made a dash
at the impudent stranger.

He struck the water with such force that it splashed above the willows,
and a kingfisher, stationed on a stump opposite him, watching the
shoals for minnows, saw it.  He spread his beak and rolled forth
rattling laughter, until his voice reechoed from point to point down
the river.  The Cardinal scarcely knew how he got out, but he had
learned a new lesson.  That beautiful, shining, creeping thing was
water; not thick, tepid, black marsh water, but pure, cool, silver
water.  He shook his plumage, feeling a degree redder from shame, but
he would not be laughed into leaving.  He found it too delightful.  In
a short time he ventured down and took a sip, and it was the first real
drink of his life.  Oh, but it was good!

When thirst from the heat and his long flight was quenched, he ventured
in for a bath, and that was a new and delightful experience.  How he
splashed and splashed, and sent the silver drops flying! How he ducked
and soaked and cooled in that rippling water, in which he might remain
as long as he pleased and splash his fill; for he could see the bottom
for a long distance all around, and easily could avoid anything
attempting to harm him.  He was so wet when his bath was finished he
scarcely could reach a bush to dry and dress his plumage.

Once again in perfect feather, he remembered the bird of the water, and
returned to the willow.  There in the depths of the shining river the
Cardinal discovered himself, and his heart swelled big with just pride.
Was that broad full breast his?  Where had he seen any other cardinal
with a crest so high it waved in the wind?  How big and black his eyes
were, and his beard was almost as long and crisp as his father's.  He
spread his wings and gloated on their sweep, and twisted and flirted
his tail.  He went over his toilet again and dressed every feather on
him.  He scoured the back of his neck with the butt of his wings, and
tucking his head under them, slowly drew it out time after time to
polish his crest.  He turned and twisted.  He rocked and paraded, and
every glimpse he caught of his size and beauty filled him with pride.
He strutted like a peacock and chattered like a jay.

When he could find no further points to admire, something else caught
his attention.  When he "chipped" there was an answering "Chip" across
the river; certainly there was no cardinal there, so it must be that he
was hearing his own voice as well as seeing himself.  Selecting a
conspicuous perch he sent an incisive "Chip!" across the water, and in
kind it came back to him.  Then he "chipped" softly and tenderly, as he
did in the Limberlost to a favourite little sister who often came and
perched beside him in the maple where he slept, and softly and tenderly
came the answer.  Then the Cardinal understood.  "Wheat! Wheat! Wheat!"
He whistled it high, and he whistled it low.  "Cheer! Cheer!  Cheer!"
He whistled it tenderly and sharply and imperiously.  "Here! Here!
Here!"  At this ringing command, every bird, as far as the river
carried his voice, came to investigate and remained to admire. Over and
over he rang every change he could invent.  He made a gallant effort at
warbling and trilling, and then, with the gladdest heart he ever had
known, he burst into ringing song: "Good Cheer! Good Cheer! Good Cheer!"

As evening came on he grew restless and uneasy, so he slowly winged his
way back to the Limberlost; but that day forever spoiled him for a
swamp bird.  In the night he restlessly ruffled his feathers, and
sniffed for the breeze of the meadows.  He tasted the corn and the
clear water again.  He admired his image in the river, and longed for
the sound of his voice, until he began murmuring, "Wheat! Wheat!
Wheat!" in his sleep.  In the earliest dawn a robin awoke him singing,
"Cheer up! Cheer up!" and he answered with a sleepy "Cheer! Cheer!
Cheer!"  Later the robin sang again with exquisite softness and
tenderness: "Cheer up, Dearie!  Cheer up, Dearie! Cheer up! Cheer up!
Cheer!"  The Cardinal, now fully awakened, shouted lustily, "Good
Cheer! Good Cheer!"  and after that it was only a short time until he
was on his way toward the shining river.  It was better than before,
and every following day found him feasting in the corn field and
bathing in the shining water; but he always returned to his family at
nightfall.

When black frosts began to strip the Limberlost, and food was almost
reduced to dry seed, there came a day on which the king marshalled his
followers and gave the magic signal.  With dusk he led them southward,
mile after mile, until their breath fell short, and their wings ached
with unaccustomed flight; but because of the trips to the river, the
Cardinal was stronger than the others, and he easily kept abreast of
the king.  In the early morning, even before the robins were awake, the
king settled in the Everglades.  But the Cardinal had lost all liking
for swamp life, so he stubbornly set out alone, and in a short time he
had found another river.  It was not quite so delightful as the shining
river; but still it was beautiful, and on its gently sloping bank was
an orange orchard.  There the Cardinal rested, and found a winter home
after his heart's desire.

The following morning, a golden-haired little girl and an old man with
snowy locks came hand in hand through the orchard.  The child saw the
redbird and immediately claimed him, and that same day the edict went
forth that a very dreadful time was in store for any one who harmed or
even frightened the Cardinal.  So in security began a series of days
that were pure delight.  The orchard was alive with insects, attracted
by the heavy odours, and slugs infested the bark.  Feasting was almost
as good as in the Limberlost, and always there was the river to drink
from and to splash in at will.

In those days the child and the old man lingered for hours in the
orchard, watching the bird that every day seemed to grow bigger and
brighter.  What a picture his coat, now a bright cardinal red, made
against the waxy green leaves!  How big and brilliant he seemed as he
raced and darted in play among the creamy blossoms!  How the little
girl stood with clasped hands worshipping him, as with swelling throat
he rocked on the highest spray and sang his inspiring chorus over and
over: "Good Cheer!  Good Cheer!"  Every day they came to watch and
listen.  They scattered crumbs; and the Cardinal grew so friendly that
he greeted their coming with a quick "Chip! Chip!" while the delighted
child tried to repeat it after him.  Soon they became such friends that
when he saw them approaching he would call softly "Chip! Chip!" and
then with beady eyes and tilted head await her reply.

Sometimes a member of his family from the Everglades found his way into
the orchard, and the Cardinal, having grown to feel a sense of
proprietorship, resented the intrusion and pursued him like a streak of
flame.  Whenever any straggler had this experience, he returned to the
swamp realizing that the Cardinal of the orange orchard was almost
twice his size and strength, and so startlingly red as to be a wonder.

One day a gentle breeze from the north sprang up and stirred the orange
branches, wafting the heavy perfume across the land and out to sea, and
spread in its stead a cool, delicate, pungent odour.  The Cardinal
lifted his head and whistled an inquiring note.  He was not certain,
and went on searching for slugs, and predicting happiness in full round
notes: "Good Cheer! Good Cheer!"  Again the odour swept the orchard, so
strong that this time there was no mistaking it.  The Cardinal darted
to the topmost branch, his crest flaring, his tail twitching nervously.
"Chip! Chip!" he cried with excited insistence, "Chip! Chip!"

The breeze was coming stiffly and steadily now, unlike anything the
Cardinal ever had known, for its cool breath told of ice-bound fields
breaking up under the sun.  Its damp touch was from the spring showers
washing the face of the northland.  Its subtle odour was the
commingling of myriads of unfolding leaves and crisp plants,
upspringing; its pungent perfume was the pollen of catkins.

Up in the land of the Limberlost, old Mother Nature, with strident
muttering, had set about her annual house cleaning.  With her efficient
broom, the March wind, she was sweeping every nook and cranny clean.
With her scrub-bucket overflowing with April showers, she was washing
the face of all creation, and if these measures failed to produce
cleanliness to her satisfaction, she gave a final polish with storms of
hail.  The shining river was filled to overflowing; breaking up the ice
and carrying a load of refuse, it went rolling to the sea.  The ice and
snow had not altogether gone; but the long-pregnant earth was mothering
her children.  She cringed at every step, for the ground was teeming
with life.  Bug and worm were working to light and warmth. Thrusting
aside the mold and leaves above them, spring beauties, hepaticas, and
violets lifted tender golden-green heads.  The sap was flowing, and
leafless trees were covered with swelling buds. Delicate mosses were
creeping over every stick of decaying timber.  The lichens on stone and
fence were freshly painted in unending shades of gray and green.
Myriads of flowers and vines were springing up to cover last year's
decaying leaves.

"The beautiful uncut hair of graves" was creeping over meadow,
spreading beside roadways, and blanketing every naked spot.

The Limberlost was waking to life even ahead of the fields and the
river.  Through the winter it had been the barest and dreariest of
places; but now the earliest signs of returning spring were in its
martial music, for when the green hyla pipes, and the bullfrog drums,
the bird voices soon join them.  The catkins bloomed first; and then,
in an incredibly short time, flags, rushes, and vines were like a sea
of waving green, and swelling buds were ready to burst.  In the upland
the smoke was curling over sugar-camp and clearing; in the forests
animals were rousing from their long sleep; the shad were starting anew
their never-ending journey up the shining river; peeps of green were
mantling hilltop and valley; and the northland was ready for its
dearest springtime treasures to come home again.

From overhead were ringing those first glad notes, caught nearer the
Throne than those of any other bird, "Spring o' year! Spring o' year!";
while stilt-legged little killdeers were scudding around the Limberlost
and beside the river, flinging from cloudland their "Kill deer! Kill
deer!" call.  The robins in the orchards were pulling the long dried
blades of last year's grass from beneath the snow to line their
mud-walled cups; and the bluebirds were at the hollow apple tree.  Flat
on the top rail, the doves were gathering their few coarse sticks and
twigs together.  It was such a splendid place to set their cradle.  The
weatherbeaten, rotting old rails were the very colour of the busy dove
mother.  Her red-rimmed eye fitted into the background like a tiny
scarlet lichen cup.  Surely no one would ever see her!  The Limberlost
and shining river, the fields and forests, the wayside bushes and
fences, the stumps, logs, hollow trees, even the bare brown breast of
Mother Earth, were all waiting to cradle their own again; and by one of
the untold miracles each would return to its place.

There was intoxication in the air.  The subtle, pungent, ravishing
odours on the wind, of unfolding leaves, ice-water washed plants, and
catkin pollen, were an elixir to humanity.  The cattle of the field
were fairly drunk with it, and herds, dry-fed during the winter, were
coming to their first grazing with heads thrown high, romping,
bellowing, and racing like wild things.

The north wind, sweeping from icy fastnesses, caught this odour of
spring, and carried it to the orange orchards and Everglades; and at a
breath of it, crazed with excitement, the Cardinal went flaming through
the orchard, for with no one to teach him, he knew what it meant.  The
call had come.  Holidays were over.

It was time to go home, time to riot in crisp freshness, time to go
courting, time to make love, time to possess his own, time for mating
and nest-building.  All that day he flashed around, nervous with dread
of the unknown, and palpitant with delightful expectation; but with the
coming of dusk he began his journey northward.

When he passed the Everglades, he winged his way slowly, and repeatedly
sent down a challenging "Chip," but there was no answer.  Then the
Cardinal knew that the north wind had carried a true message, for the
king and his followers were ahead of him on their way to the
Limberlost.  Mile after mile, a thing of pulsing fire, he breasted the
blue-black night, and it was not so very long until he could discern a
flickering patch of darkness sweeping the sky before him.  The Cardinal
flew steadily in a straight sweep, until with a throb of triumph in his
heart, he arose in his course, and from far overhead, flung down a
boastful challenge to the king and his followers, as he sailed above
them and was lost from sight.

It was still dusky with the darkness of night when he crossed the
Limberlost, dropping low enough to see its branches laid bare, to catch
a gleam of green in its swelling buds, and to hear the wavering chorus
of its frogs.  But there was no hesitation in his flight.  Straight and
sure he winged his way toward the shining river; and it was only a few
more miles until the rolling waters of its springtime flood caught his
eye.  Dropping precipitately, he plunged his burning beak into the
loved water; then he flew into a fine old stag sumac and tucked his
head under his wing for a short rest.  He had made the long flight in
one unbroken sweep, and he was sleepy.  In utter content he ruffled his
feathers and closed his eyes, for he was beside the shining river; and
it would be another season before the orange orchard would ring again
with his "Good Cheer! Good Cheer!"



Chapter 2

"Wet year! Wet year!" prophesied the Cardinal


The sumac seemed to fill his idea of a perfect location from the very
first.  He perched on a limb, and between dressing his plumage and
pecking at last year's sour dried berries, he sent abroad his
prediction.  Old Mother Nature verified his wisdom by sending a dashing
shower, but he cared not at all for a wetting.  He knew how to turn his
crimson suit into the most perfect of water-proof coats; so he
flattened his crest, sleeked his feathers, and breasting the April
downpour, kept on calling for rain.  He knew he would appear brighter
when it was past, and he seemed to know, too, that every day of
sunshine and shower would bring nearer his heart's desire.

He was a very Beau Brummel while he waited.  From morning until night
he bathed, dressed his feathers, sunned himself, fluffed and flirted.
He strutted and "chipped" incessantly.  He claimed that sumac for his
very own, and stoutly battled for possession with many intruders.  It
grew on a densely wooded slope, and the shining river went singing
between grassy banks, whitened with spring beauties, below it.  Crowded
around it were thickets of papaw, wild grape-vines, thorn, dogwood, and
red haw, that attracted bug and insect; and just across the old snake
fence was a field of mellow mould sloping to the river, that soon would
be plowed for corn, turning out numberless big fat grubs.

He was compelled almost hourly to wage battles for his location, for
there was something fine about the old stag sumac that attracted
homestead seekers.  A sober pair of robins began laying their
foundations there the morning the Cardinal arrived, and a couple of
blackbirds tried to take possession before the day had passed.  He had
little trouble with the robins.  They were easily conquered, and with
small protest settled a rod up the bank in a wild-plum tree; but the
air was thick with "chips," chatter, and red and black feathers, before
the blackbirds acknowledged defeat.  They were old-timers, and knew
about the grubs and the young corn; but they also knew when they were
beaten, so they moved down stream to a scrub oak, trying to assure each
other that it was the place they really had wanted from the first.

The Cardinal was left boasting and strutting in the sumac, but in his
heart he found it lonesome business.  Being the son of a king, he was
much too dignified to beg for a mate, and besides, it took all his time
to guard the sumac; but his eyes were wide open to all that went on
around him, and he envied the blackbird his glossy, devoted little
sweetheart, with all his might.  He almost strained his voice trying to
rival the love-song of a skylark that hung among the clouds above a
meadow across the river, and poured down to his mate a story of adoring
love and sympathy.  He screamed a "Chip" of such savage jealousy at a
pair of killdeer lovers that he sent them scampering down the river
bank without knowing that the crime of which they stood convicted was
that of being mated when he was not.  As for the doves that were
already brooding on the line fence beneath the maples, the Cardinal was
torn between two opinions.

He was alone, he was love-sick, and he was holding the finest building
location beside the shining river for his mate, and her slowness in
coming made their devotion difficult to endure when he coveted a true
love; but it seemed to the Cardinal that he never could so forget
himself as to emulate the example of that dove lover.  The dove had no
dignity; he was so effusive he was a nuisance.  He kept his dignified
Quaker mate stuffed to discomfort; he clung to the side of the nest
trying to help brood until he almost crowded her from the eggs.  He
pestered her with caresses and cooed over his love-song until every
chipmunk on the line fence was familiar with his story.  The Cardinal's
temper was worn to such a fine edge that he darted at the dove one day
and pulled a big tuft of feathers from his back.  When he had returned
to the sumac, he was compelled to admit that his anger lay quite as
much in that he had no one to love as because the dove was disgustingly
devoted.

Every morning brought new arrivals--trim young females fresh from their
long holiday, and big boastful males appearing their brightest and
bravest, each singer almost splitting his throat in the effort to
captivate the mate he coveted.  They came flashing down the river bank,
like rockets of scarlet, gold, blue, and black; rocking on the willows,
splashing in the water, bursting into jets of melody, making every
possible display of their beauty and music; and at times fighting
fiercely when they discovered that the females they were wooing
favoured their rivals and desired only to be friendly with them.

The heart of the Cardinal sank as he watched.  There was not a member
of his immediate family among them.  He pitied himself as he wondered
if fate had in store for him the trials he saw others suffering.  Those
dreadful feathered females! How they coquetted!  How they flirted! How
they sleeked and flattened their plumage, and with half-open beaks and
sparkling eyes, hopped closer and closer as if charmed.  The eager
singers, with swelling throats, sang and sang in a very frenzy of
extravagant pleading, but just when they felt sure their little loves
were on the point of surrender, a rod distant above the bushes would go
streaks of feathers, and there was nothing left but to endure the
bitter disappointment, follow them, and begin all over.  For the last
three days the Cardinal had been watching his cousin, rose-breasted
Grosbeak, make violent love to the most exquisite little female, who
apparently encouraged his advances, only to see him left sitting as
blue and disconsolate as any human lover, when he discovers that the
maid who has coquetted with him for a season belongs to another man.

The Cardinal flew to the very top of the highest sycamore and looked
across country toward the Limberlost.  Should he go there seeking a
swamp mate among his kindred?  It was not an endurable thought.  To be
sure, matters were becoming serious.  No bird beside the shining river
had plumed, paraded, or made more music than he.  Was it all to be
wasted?  By this time he confidently had expected results.  Only that
morning he had swelled with pride as he heard Mrs. Jay tell her
quarrelsome husband that she wished she could exchange him for the
Cardinal.  Did not the gentle dove pause by the sumac, when she left
brooding to take her morning dip in the dust, and gaze at him with
unconcealed admiration?  No doubt she devoutly wished her plain pudgy
husband wore a scarlet coat.  But it is praise from one's own sex that
is praise indeed, and only an hour ago the lark had reported that from
his lookout above cloud he saw no other singer anywhere so splendid as
the Cardinal of the sumac.  Because of these things he held fast to his
conviction that he was a prince indeed; and he decided to remain in his
chosen location and with his physical and vocal attractions compel the
finest little cardinal in the fields to seek him.

He planned it all very carefully: how she would hear his splendid music
and come to take a peep at him; how she would be captivated by his size
and beauty; how she would come timidly, but come, of course, for his
approval; how he would condescend to accept her if she pleased him in
all particulars; how she would be devoted to him; and how she would
approve his choice of a home, for the sumac was in a lovely spot for
scenery, as well as nest-building.

For several days he had boasted, he had bantered, he had challenged, he
had on this last day almost condescended to coaxing, but not one little
bright-eyed cardinal female had come to offer herself.

The performance of a brown thrush drove him wild with envy.  The thrush
came gliding up the river bank, a rusty-coated, sneaking thing of the
underbrush, and taking possession of a thorn bush just opposite the
sumac, he sang for an hour in the open.  There was no way to improve
that music.  It was woven fresh from the warp and woof of his fancy.
It was a song so filled with the joy and gladness of spring, notes so
thrilled with love's pleading and passion's tender pulsing pain, that
at its close there were a half-dozen admiring thrush females gathered
around.  With care and deliberation the brown thrush selected the most
attractive, and she followed him to the thicket as if charmed.

It was the Cardinal's dream materialized for another before his very
eyes, and it filled him with envy.  If that plain brown bird that
slinked as if he had a theft to account for, could, by showing himself
and singing for an hour, win a mate, why should not he, the most
gorgeous bird of the woods, openly flaunting his charms and discoursing
his music, have at least equal success?  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."

"Abram Johnson," said his wife, "bein's you set up for an honest man,
if you want to trapse through slush an' drizzle a half-mile to see a
bird, why say so, but don't for land's sake lay it on to plowin' 'at
you know in all conscience won't be ready for a week yet 'thout
pretendin' to look."

Abram grinned sheepishly.  "I'm willin' to call it the bird if you are,
Maria.  I've been hearin' him from the barn all day, an' there's
somethin' kind o' human in his notes 'at takes me jest a little
diffrunt from any other bird I ever noticed.  I'm really curious to set
eyes on him.  Seemed to me from his singin' out to the barn, it 'ud be
mighty near like meetin' folks."

"Bosh!" exclaimed Maria.  "I don't s'pose he sings a mite better 'an
any other bird.  It's jest the old Wabash rollin' up the echoes.  A
bird singin' beside the river always sounds twicet as fine as one on
the hills.  I've knowed that for forty year.  Chances are 'at he'll be
gone 'fore you get there."

As Abram opened the door, "Wet year! Wet year!" pealed the flaming
prophet.

He went out, closing the door softly, and with an utter disregard for
the corn field, made a bee line for the musician.

"I don't know as this is the best for twinges o' rheumatiz," he
muttered, as he turned up his collar and drew his old hat lower to keep
the splashing drops from his face.  "I don't jest rightly s'pose I
should go; but I'm free to admit I'd as lief be dead as not to answer
when I get a call, an' the fact is, I'm CALLED down beside the river."

"Wet year! Wet year!" rolled the Cardinal's prediction.

"Thanky, old fellow!  Glad to hear you!  Didn't jest need the
information, but I got my bearin's rightly from it! I can about pick
out your bush, an' it's well along towards evenin', too, an' must be
mighty near your bedtime.  Looks as if you might be stayin' round these
parts!  I'd like it powerful well if you'd settle right here, say 'bout
where you are.  An' where are you, anyway?"

Abram went peering and dodging beside the fence, peeping into the
bushes, searching for the bird.  Suddenly there was a whir of wings and
a streak of crimson.

"Scared you into the next county, I s'pose," he muttered.

But it came nearer being a scared man than a frightened bird, for the
Cardinal flashed straight toward him until only a few yards away, and
then, swaying on a bush, it chipped, cheered, peeked, whistled broken
notes, and manifested perfect delight at the sight of the white-haired
old man.  Abram stared in astonishment.

"Lord A'mighty!" he gasped.  "Big as a blackbird, red as a live coal,
an' a-comin' right at me.  You are somebody's pet, that's what you are!
An' no, you ain't either.  Settin' on a sawed stick in a little wire
house takes all the ginger out of any bird, an' their feathers are
always mussy.  Inside o' a cage never saw you, for they ain't a feather
out o' place on you.  You are finer'n a piece o' red satin.  An' you
got that way o' swingin' an' dancin' an' high-steppin' right out in God
A'mighty's big woods, a teeterin' in the wind, an' a dartin' 'crost the
water.  Cage never touched you! But you are somebody's pet jest the
same.  An' I look like the man, an' you are tryin' to tell me so, by
gum!"

Leaning toward Abram, the Cardinal turned his head from side to side,
and peered, "chipped," and waited for an answering "Chip" from a little
golden-haired child, but there was no way for the man to know that.

"It's jest as sure as fate," he said.  "You think you know me, an' you
are tryin' to tell me somethin'.  Wish to land I knowed what you want!
Are you tryin' to tell me `Howdy'?  Well, I don't 'low nobody to be
politer 'an I am, so far as I know."

Abram lifted his old hat, and the raindrops glistened on his white
hair.  He squared his shoulders and stood very erect.

"Howdy, Mr.  Redbird!  How d'ye find yerself this evenin'?  I don't
jest riccolict ever seein' you before, but I'll never meet you agin
'thout knowin' you.  When d'you arrive?  Come through by the special
midnight flyer, did you? Well, you never was more welcome any place in
your life.  I'd give a right smart sum this minnit if you'd say you
came to settle on this river bank.  How do you like it?  To my mind
it's jest as near Paradise as you'll strike on earth.

"Old Wabash is a twister for curvin' and windin' round, an' it's
limestone bed half the way, an' the water's as pretty an' clear as in
Maria's springhouse.  An' as for trimmin', why say, Mr. Redbird, I'll
jest leave it to you if she ain't all trimmed up like a woman's spring
bunnit.  Look at the grass a-creepin' right down till it's a trailin'
in the water!  Did you ever see jest quite such fine fringy willers?
An' you wait a little, an' the flowerin' mallows 'at grows long the
shinin' old river are fine as garden hollyhocks.  Maria says 'at thy'd
be purtier 'an hers if they were only double; but, Lord, Mr.  Redbird,
they are!  See 'em once on the bank, an' agin in the water!  An' back a
little an' there's jest thickets of papaw, an' thorns, an' wild
grape-vines, an' crab, an' red an' black haw, an' dogwood, an' sumac,
an' spicebush, an' trees! Lord! Mr. Redbird, the sycamores, an' maples,
an' tulip, an' ash, an' elm trees are so bustin' fine 'long the old
Wabash they put 'em into poetry books an' sing songs about 'em.  What
do you think o' that? Jest back o' you a little there's a sycamore
split into five trunks, any one o' them a famous big tree, tops up
'mong the clouds, an' roots diggin' under the old river; an' over a
little farther's a maple 'at's eight big trees in one.  Most anything
you can name, you can find it 'long this ole Wabash, if you only know
where to hunt for it.

"They's mighty few white men takes the trouble to look, but the Indians
used to know.  They'd come canoein' an' fishin' down the river an' camp
under these very trees, an' Ma 'ud git so mad at the old squaws.
Settlers wasn't so thick then, an' you had to be mighty careful not to
rile 'em, an' they'd come a-trapesin' with their wild berries.  Woods
full o' berries!  Anybody could get 'em by the bushel for the pickin',
an' we hadn't got on to raisin' much wheat, an' had to carry it on
horses over into Ohio to get it milled.  Took Pa five days to make the
trip; an' then the blame old squaws 'ud come, an' Ma 'ud be compelled
to hand over to 'em her big white loaves.  Jest about set her plumb
crazy.  Used to get up in the night, an' fix her yeast, an' bake, an'
let the oven cool, an' hide the bread out in the wheat bin, an' get the
smell of it all out o' the house by good daylight, so's 'at she could
say there wasn't a loaf in the cabin.  Oh!  if it's good pickin' you're
after, they's berries for all creation 'long the river yet; an' jest
wait a few days till old April gets done showerin' an' I plow this corn
field!"

Abram set a foot on the third rail and leaned his elbows on the top.
The Cardinal chipped delightedly and hopped and tilted closer.

"I hadn't jest 'lowed all winter I'd tackle this field again.  I've
turned it every spring for forty year.  Bought it when I was a young
fellow, jest married to Maria.  Shouldered a big debt on it; but I
always loved these slopin' fields, an' my share of this old Wabash
hasn't been for sale nor tradin' any time this past forty year.  I've
hung on to it like grim death, for it's jest that much o' Paradise I'm
plumb sure of.  First time I plowed this field, Mr. Redbird, I only hit
the high places.  Jest married Maria, an' I didn't touch earth any too
frequent all that summer. I've plowed it every year since, an' I've
been 'lowin' all this winter, when the rheumatiz was gettin' in its
work, 'at I'd give it up this spring an' turn it to medder; but I don't
know.  Once I got started, b'lieve I could go it all right an' not feel
it so much, if you'd stay to cheer me up a little an' post me on the
weather.  Hate the doggondest to own I'm worsted, an' if you say it's
stay, b'lieve I'll try it.  Very sight o' you kinder warms the cockles
o' my heart all up, an' every skip you take sets me a-wantin' to be
jumpin', too.

"What on earth are you lookin' for?  Man!  I b'lieve it's grub!
Somebody's been feedin' you!  An' you want me to keep it up?  Well, you
struck it all right, Mr. Redbird.  Feed you?  You bet I will!  You
needn't even 'rastle for grubs if you don't want to.  Like as not
you're feelin' hungry right now, pickin' bein' so slim these airly
days.  Land's sake!  I hope you don't feel you've come too soon.  I'll
fetch you everything on the place it's likely a redbird ever teched,
airly in the mornin' if you'll say you'll stay an' wave your torch
'long my river bank this summer. I haven't a scrap about me now.  Yes,
I have, too!  Here's a handful o' corn I was takin' to the banty
rooster; but shucks! he's fat as a young shoat now.  Corn's a leetle
big an' hard for you.  Mebby I can split it up a mite."

Abram took out his jack-knife, and dotting a row of grains along the
top rail, he split and shaved them down as fine as possible; and as he
reached one end of the rail, the Cardinal, with a spasmodic "Chip!"
dashed down and snatched a particle from the other, and flashed back to
the bush, tested, approved, and chipped his thanks.

"Pshaw now!" said Abram, staring wide-eyed.  "Doesn't that beat you?
So you really are a pet?  Best kind of a pet in the whole world, too!
Makin' everybody, at sees you happy, an' havin' some chance to be happy
yourself.  An' I look like your friend?  Well!  Well!  I'm monstrous
willin' to adopt you if you'll take me; an', as for feedin', from
to-morrow on I'll find time to set your little table 'long this same
rail every day.  I s'pose Maria 'ull say 'at I'm gone plumb crazy; but,
for that matter, if I ever get her down to see you jest once, the
trick's done with her, too, for you're the prettiest thing God ever
made in the shape of a bird, 'at I ever saw.  Look at that topknot a
wavin' in the wind!  Maybe praise to the face is open disgrace; but
I'll take your share an' mine, too, an' tell you right here an' now 'at
you're the blamedest prettiest thing 'at I ever saw.

"But Lord!  You ortn't be so careless!  Don't you know you ain't
nothin' but jest a target?  Why don't you keep out o' sight a little?
You come a-shinneyin' up to nine out o' ten men 'long the river like
this, an' your purty, coaxin', palaverin' way won't save a feather on
you.  You'll get the little red heart shot plumb outen your little red
body, an' that's what you'll get. It's a dratted shame!  An' there's
law to protect you, too.  They's a good big fine for killin' such as
you, but nobody seems to push it.  Every fool wants to test his aim,
an' you're the brightest thing on the river bank for a mark.

"Well, if you'll stay right where you are, it 'ull be a sorry day for
any cuss 'at teches you; 'at I'll promise you, Mr. Redbird.  This
land's mine, an' if you locate on it, you're mine till time to go back
to that other old fellow 'at looks like me.  Wonder if he's any
willinger to feed you an' stand up for you 'an I am?"

"Here! Here! Here!" whistled the Cardinal.

"Well, I'm mighty glad if you're sayin' you'll stay!  Guess it will be
all right if you don't meet some o' them Limberlost hens an' tole off
to the swamp.  Lord!  the Limberlost ain't to be compared with the
river, Mr. Redbird.  You're foolish if you go!  Talkin' 'bout goin', I
must be goin' myself, or Maria will be comin' down the line fence with
the lantern; an', come to think of it, I'm a little moist, not to say
downright damp.  But then you WARNED me, didn't you, old fellow?  Well,
I told Maria seein' you 'ud be like meetin' folks, an' it has been.
Good deal more'n I counted on, an' I've talked more'n I have in a whole
year.  Hardly think now 'at I've the reputation o' being a mighty quiet
fellow, would you?"

Abram straightened and touched his hat brim in a trim half military
salute.  "Well, good-bye, Mr. Redbird.  Never had more pleasure meetin'
anybody in my life 'cept first time I met Maria.  You think about the
plowin', an', if you say `stay,' it's a go!  Good-bye; an' do be a
little more careful o' yourself.  See you in the mornin', right after
breakfast, no count taken o' the weather."

"Wet year! Wet year!" called the Cardinal after his retreating figure.

Abram turned and gravely saluted the second time.  The Cardinal went to
the top rail and feasted on the sweet grains of corn until his craw was
full, and then nestled in the sumac and went to sleep.  Early next
morning he was abroad and in fine toilet, and with a full voice from
the top of the sumac greeted the day--"Wet year! Wet year!"

Far down the river echoed his voice until it so closely resembled some
member of his family replying that he followed, searching the banks
mile after mile on either side, until finally he heard voices of his
kind.  He located them, but it was only several staid old couples, a
long time mated, and busy with their nest-building.  The Cardinal
returned to the sumac, feeling a degree lonelier than ever.

He decided to prospect in the opposite direction, and taking wing, he
started up the river.  Following the channel, he winged his flight for
miles over the cool sparkling water, between the tangle of foliage
bordering the banks.  When he came to the long cumbrous structures of
wood with which men had bridged the river, where the shuffling feet of
tired farm horses raised clouds of dust and set the echoes rolling with
their thunderous hoof beats, he was afraid; and rising high, he sailed
over them in short broken curves of flight.  But where giant maple and
ash, leaning, locked branches across the channel in one of old Mother
Nature's bridges for the squirrels, he knew no fear, and dipped so low
beneath them that his image trailed a wavering shadow on the silver
path he followed.

He rounded curve after curve, and frequently stopping on a conspicuous
perch, flung a ringing challenge in the face of the morning.  With
every mile the way he followed grew more beautiful. The river bed was
limestone, and the swiftly flowing water, clear and limpid.  The banks
were precipitate in some places, gently sloping in others, and always
crowded with a tangle of foliage.

At an abrupt curve in the river he mounted to the summit of a big ash
and made boastful prophecy, "Wet year! Wet year!" and on all sides
there sprang up the voices of his kind.  Startled, the Cardinal took
wing.  He followed the river in a circling flight until he remembered
that here might be the opportunity to win the coveted river mate, and
going slower to select the highest branch on which to display his
charms, he discovered that he was only a few yards from the ash from
which he had made his prediction.  The Cardinal flew over the narrow
neck and sent another call, then without awaiting a reply, again he
flashed up the river and circled Horseshoe Bend.  When he came to the
same ash for the third time, he understood.

The river circled in one great curve.  The Cardinal mounted to the
tip-top limb of the ash and looked around him.  There was never a
fairer sight for the eye of man or bird.  The mist and shimmer of early
spring were in the air.  The Wabash rounded Horseshoe Bend in a silver
circle, rimmed by a tangle of foliage bordering both its banks; and
inside lay a low open space covered with waving marsh grass and the
blue bloom of sweet calamus.  Scattered around were mighty trees, but
conspicuous above any, in the very center, was a giant sycamore, split
at its base into three large trees, whose waving branches seemed to
sweep the face of heaven, and whose roots, like miserly fingers,
clutched deep into the black muck of Rainbow Bottom.

It was in this lovely spot that the rainbow at last materialized, and
at its base, free to all humanity who cared to seek, the Great
Alchemist had left His rarest treasures--the gold of sunshine, diamond
water-drops, emerald foliage, and sapphire sky.

For good measure, there were added seeds, berries, and insects for the
birds; and wild flowers, fruit, and nuts for the children.  Above all,
the sycamore waved its majestic head.

It made a throne that seemed suitable for the son of the king; and
mounting to its topmost branch, for miles the river carried his
challenge: "Ho, cardinals! Look this way! Behold me! Have you seen any
other of so great size? Have you any to equal my grace?  Who can
whistle so loud, so clear, so compelling a note? Who will fly to me for
protection? Who will come and be my mate?"

He flared his crest high, swelled his throat with rolling notes, and
appeared so big and brilliant that among the many cardinals that had
gathered to hear, there was not one to compare with him.

Black envy filled their hearts.  Who was this flaming dashing stranger,
flaunting himself in the faces of their females? There were many
unmated cardinals in Rainbow Bottom, and many jealous males.  A second
time the Cardinal, rocking and flashing, proclaimed himself; and there
was a note of feminine approval so strong that he caught it.  Tilting
on a twig, his crest flared to full height, his throat swelled to
bursting, his heart too big for his body, the Cardinal shouted his
challenge for the third time; when clear and sharp arose a cry in
answer, "Here! Here!  Here!"  It came from a female that had accepted
the caresses of the brightest cardinal in Rainbow Bottom only the day
before, and had spent the morning carrying twigs to a thicket of red
haws.

The Cardinal, with a royal flourish, sprang in air to seek her; but her
outraged mate was ahead of him, and with a scream she fled, leaving a
tuft of feathers in her mate's beak.  In turn the Cardinal struck him
like a flashing rocket, and then red war waged in Rainbow Bottom.  The
females scattered for cover with all their might.  The Cardinal worked
in a kiss on one poor little bird, too frightened to escape him; then
the males closed in, and serious business began.  The Cardinal would
have enjoyed a fight vastly with two or three opponents; but a
half-dozen made discretion better than valour.  He darted among them,
scattering them right and left, and made for the sycamore.  With all
his remaining breath, he insolently repeated his challenge; and then
headed down stream for the sumac with what grace he could command.

There was an hour of angry recrimination before sweet peace brooded
again in Rainbow Bottom.  The newly mated pair finally made up; the
females speedily resumed their coquetting, and forgot the captivating
stranger--all save the poor little one that had been kissed by
accident.  She never had been kissed before, and never had expected
that she would be, for she was a creature of many misfortunes of every
nature.

She had been hatched from a fifth egg to begin with; and every one
knows the disadvantage of beginning life with four sturdy older birds
on top of one.  It was a meager egg, and a feeble baby that pipped its
shell.  The remainder of the family stood and took nearly all the food
so that she almost starved in the nest, and she never really knew the
luxury of a hearty meal until her elders had flown.  That lasted only a
few days; for the others went then, and their parents followed them so
far afield that the poor little soul, clamouring alone in the nest,
almost perished. Hunger-driven, she climbed to the edge and exercised
her wings until she managed some sort of flight to a neighbouring bush.
She missed the twig and fell to the ground, where she lay cold and
shivering.

She cried pitifully, and was almost dead when a brown-faced, barefoot
boy, with a fishing-pole on his shoulder, passed and heard her.

"Poor little thing, you are almost dead," he said.  "I know what I'll
do with you.  I'll take you over and set you in the bushes where I
heard those other redbirds, and then your ma will feed you."

The boy turned back and carefully set her on a limb close to one of her
brothers, and there she got just enough food to keep her alive.

So her troubles continued.  Once a squirrel chased her, and she saved
herself by crowding into a hole so small her pursuer could not follow.
The only reason she escaped a big blue racer when she went to take her
first bath, was that a hawk had his eye on the snake and snapped it up
at just the proper moment to save the poor, quivering little bird.  She
was left so badly frightened that she could not move for a long time.

All the tribulations of birdland fell to her lot.  She was so frail and
weak she lost her family in migration, and followed with some strangers
that were none too kind.  Life in the South had been full of trouble.
Once a bullet grazed her so closely she lost two of her wing quills,
and that made her more timid than ever.  Coming North, she had given
out again and finally had wandered into Rainbow Bottom, lost and alone.

She was such a shy, fearsome little body, the females all flouted her;
and the males never seemed to notice that there was material in her for
a very fine mate.  Every other female cardinal in Rainbow Bottom had
several males courting her, but this poor, frightened, lonely one had
never a suitor; and she needed love so badly!  Now she had been kissed
by this magnificent stranger!

Of course, she knew it really was not her kiss.  He had intended it for
the bold creature that had answered his challenge, but since it came to
her, it was hers, in a way, after all.  She hid in the underbrush for
the remainder of the day, and was never so frightened in all her life.
She brooded over it constantly, and morning found her at the down curve
of the horseshoe, straining her ears for the rarest note she ever had
heard.  All day she hid and waited, and the following days were filled
with longing, but he never came again.

So one morning, possessed with courage she did not understand, and
filled with longing that drove her against her will, she started down
the river.  For miles she sneaked through the underbrush, and watched
and listened; until at last night came, and she returned to Rainbow
Bottom.  The next morning she set out early and flew to the spot from
which she had turned back the night before.  From there she glided
through the bushes and underbrush, trembling and quaking, yet pushing
stoutly onward, straining her ears for some note of the brilliant
stranger's.

It was mid-forenoon when she reached the region of the sumac, and as
she hopped warily along, only a short distance from her, full and
splendid, there burst the voice of the singer for whom she was
searching.  She sprang into air, and fled a mile before she realized
that she was flying.  Then she stopped and listened, and rolling with
the river, she heard those bold true tones.  Close to earth, she went
back again, to see if, unobserved, she could find a spot where she
might watch the stranger that had kissed her. When at last she reached
a place where she could see him plainly, his beauty was so bewildering,
and his song so enticing that she gradually hopped closer and closer
without knowing she was moving.

High in the sumac the Cardinal had sung until his throat was parched,
and the fountain of hope was almost dry.  There was nothing save defeat
from overwhelming numbers in Rainbow Bottom.  He had paraded, and made
all the music he ever had been taught, and improvised much more.  Yet
no one had come to seek him.  Was it of necessity to be the Limberlost
then? This one day more he would retain his dignity and his location.
He tipped, tilted, and flirted.  He whistled, and sang, and trilled.
Over the lowland and up and down the shining river, ringing in every
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 sharp bark of the red
squirrel and the low of cattle, lazily chewing their cuds among the
willows, came to him.  The hammering of a woodpecker on a dead
sycamore, a little above him, rolled to his straining ears like a drum
beat.

The Cardinal hated the woodpecker more than he disliked the dove.

It was only foolishly effusive, but the woodpecker was a veritable
Bluebeard.  The Cardinal longed to pull the feathers from his back
until it was as red as his head, for the woodpecker had dressed his
suit in finest style, and with dulcet tones and melting tenderness had
gone acourting.  Sweet as the dove's had been his wooing, and one more
pang the lonely Cardinal had suffered at being forced to witness his
felicity; yet scarcely had his plump, amiable little mate consented to
his caresses and approved the sycamore, before he turned on her, pecked
her severely, and pulled a tuft of plumage from her breast.  There was
not the least excuse for this tyrannical action; and the sight filled
the Cardinal with rage.  He fully expected to see Madam Woodpecker
divorce herself and flee her new home, and he most earnestly hoped that
she would; but she did no such thing.  She meekly flattened her
feathers, hurried work in a lively manner, and tried in every way to
anticipate and avert her mate's displeasure.  Under this treatment he
grew more abusive, and now Madam Woodpecker dodged every time she came
within his reach.  It made the Cardinal feel so vengeful that he longed
to go up and drum the sycamore with the woodpecker's head until he
taught him how to treat his mate properly.

There was plently of lark music rolling with the river, and that
morning brought the first liquid golden notes of the orioles.  They had
arrived at dawn, and were overjoyed with their homecoming, for they
were darting from bank to bank singing exquisitely on wing.  There
seemed no end to the bird voices that floated with the river, and yet
there was no beginning to the one voice for which the Cardinal waited
with passionate longing.

The oriole's singing was so inspiring that it tempted the Cardinal to
another effort, and perching where he gleamed crimson and black against
the April sky, he tested his voice, and when sure of his tones, he
entreatingly called: "Come here! Come here!"

Just then he saw her!  She came daintily over the earth, soft as down
before the wind, a rosy flush suffusing her plumage, a coral beak, her
very feet pink--the shyest, most timid little thing alive.  Her bright
eyes were popping with fear, and down there among the ferns, anemones
and last year's dried leaves, she tilted her sleek crested head and
peered at him with frightened wonder and silent helplessness.

It was for this the Cardinal had waited, hoped, and planned for many
days.  He had rehearsed what he conceived to be every point of the
situation, and yet he was not prepared for the thing that suddenly
happened to him.  He had expected to reject many applicants before he
selected one to match his charms; but instantly this shy little
creature, slipping along near earth, taking a surreptitious peep at
him, made him feel a very small bird, and he certainly never before had
felt small.  The crushing possibility that somewhere there might be a
cardinal that was larger, brighter, and a finer musician than he,
staggered him; and worst of all, his voice broke suddenly to his
complete embarrassment.

Half screened by the flowers, she seemed so little, so shy, so
delightfully sweet.  He "chipped" carefully once or twice to steady
himself and clear his throat, for unaccountably it had grown dry and
husky; and then he tenderly tried again.  "Come here! Come here!"
implored the Cardinal.  He forgot all about his dignity.  He knew that
his voice was trembling with eagerness and hoarse with fear.  He was
afraid to attempt approaching her, but he leaned toward her, begging
and pleading.  He teased and insisted, and he did not care a particle
if he did.  It suddenly seemed an honour to coax her.  He rocked on the
limb.  He side-stepped and hopped and gyrated gracefully.  He fluffed
and flirted and showed himself to every advantage.  It never occurred
to him that the dove and the woodpecker might be watching, though he
would not have cared in the least if they had been; and as for any
other cardinal, he would have attacked the combined forces of the
Limberlost and Rainbow Bottom.

He sang and sang.  Every impulse of passion in his big, crimson,
palpitating body was thrown into those notes; but she only turned her
head from side to side, peering at him, seeming sufficiently frightened
to flee at a breath, and answered not even the faintest little "Chook!"
of encouragement.

The Cardinal rested a second before he tried again.  That steadied him
and gave him better command of himself.  He could tell that his notes
were clearing and growing sweeter.  He was improving.  Perhaps she was
interested.  There was some encouragement in the fact that she was
still there.  The Cardinal felt that his time had come.

"Come here! Come here!" He was on his mettle now.  Surely no cardinal
could sing fuller, clearer, sweeter notes! He began at the very first,
and rollicked through a story of adventure, colouring it with every
wild, dashing, catchy note he could improvise.  He followed that with a
rippling song of the joy and fulness of spring, in notes as light and
airy as the wind-blown soul of melody, and with swaying body kept time
to his rhythmic measures.  Then he glided into a song of love, and
tenderly, pleadingly, passionately, told the story as only a courting
bird can tell it.  Then he sang a song of ravishment; a song quavering
with fear and the pain tugging at his heart.  He almost had run the
gamut, and she really appeared as if she intended to flee rather than
to come to him.  He was afraid to take even one timid little hop toward
her.

In a fit of desperation the Cardinal burst into the passion song.

He arose to his full height, leaned toward her with outspread quivering
wings, and crest flared to the utmost, and rocking from side to side in
the intensity of his fervour, he poured out a perfect torrent of
palpitant song.  His cardinal body swayed to the rolling flood of his
ecstatic tones, until he appeared like a flaming pulsing note of
materialized music, as he entreated, coaxed, commanded, and pled.  From
sheer exhaustion, he threw up his head to round off the last note he
could utter, and breathlessly glancing down to see if she were coming,
caught sight of a faint streak of gray in the distance. He had planned
so to subdue the little female he courted that she would come to him;
he was in hot pursuit a half day's journey away before he remembered it.

No other cardinal ever endured such a chase as she led him in the
following days.  Through fear and timidity she had kept most of her
life in the underbrush.  The Cardinal was a bird of the open fields and
tree-tops.  He loved to rock with the wind, and speed arrow-like in
great plunges of flight.  This darting and twisting over logs, among
leaves, and through tangled thickets, tired, tried, and exasperated him
more than hundreds of miles of open flight.  Sometimes he drove her
from cover, and then she wildly dashed up-hill and down-dale, seeking
another thicket; but wherever she went, the Cardinal was only a breath
behind her, and with every passing mile his passion for her grew.

There was no time to eat, bathe, or sing; only mile after mile of
unceasing pursuit.  It seemed that the little creature could not stop
if she would, and as for the Cardinal, he was in that chase to remain
until his last heart-beat.  It was a question how the frightened bird
kept in advance.  She was visibly the worse for this ardent courtship.
Two tail feathers were gone, and there was a broken one beating from
her wing.  Once she had flown too low, striking her head against a rail
until a drop of blood came, and she cried pitifully.  Several times the
Cardinal had cornered her, and tried to hold her by a bunch of
feathers, and compel her by force to listen to reason; but she only
broke from his hold and dashed away a stricken thing, leaving him half
dead with longing and remorse.

But no matter how baffled she grew, or where she fled in her headlong
flight, the one thing she always remembered, was not to lead the
Cardinal into the punishment that awaited him in Rainbow Bottom.
Panting for breath, quivering with fear, longing for well-concealed
retreats, worn and half blinded by the disasters of flight through
strange country, the tired bird beat her aimless way; but she would
have been torn to pieces before she would have led her magnificent
pursuer into the wrath of his enemies.

Poor little feathered creature!  She had been fleeing some kind of
danger all her life.  She could not realize that love and protection
had come in this splendid guise, and she fled on and on.

Once the Cardinal, aching with passion and love, fell behind that she
might rest, and before he realized that another bird was close, an
impudent big relative of his, straying from the Limberlost, entered the
race and pursued her so hotly that with a note of utter panic she
wheeled and darted back to the Cardinal for protection.  When to the
rush of rage that possessed him at the sight of a rival was added the
knowledge that she was seeking him in her extremity, such a mighty wave
of anger swept the Cardinal that he appeared twice his real size.  Like
a flaming brand of vengeance he struck that Limberlost upstart, and
sent him rolling to earth, a mass of battered feathers.  With beak and
claw he made his attack, and when he so utterly demolished his rival
that he hopped away trembling, with dishevelled plumage stained with
his own blood, the Cardinal remembered his little love and hastened
back, confidently hoping for his reward.

She was so securely hidden, that although he went searching, calling,
pleading, he found no trace of her the remainder of that day.  The
Cardinal almost went distracted; and his tender imploring cries would
have moved any except a panic-stricken bird.  He did not even know in
what direction to pursue her.  Night closed down, and found him in a
fever of love-sick fear, but it brought rest and wisdom.  She could not
have gone very far.  She was too worn.  He would not proclaim his
presence.  Soon she would suffer past enduring for food and water.

He hid in the willows close where he had lost her, and waited with what
patience he could; and it was a wise plan.  Shortly after dawn, moving
stilly as the break of day, trembling with fear, she came slipping to
the river for a drink.  It was almost brutal cruelty, but her fear must
be overcome someway; and with a cry of triumph the Cardinal, in a
plunge of flight, was beside her.  She gave him one stricken look, and
dashed away.  The chase began once more and continued until she was
visibly breaking.

There was no room for a rival that morning.  The Cardinal flew abreast
of her and gave her a caress or attempted a kiss whenever he found the
slightest chance.  She was almost worn out, her flights were wavering
and growing shorter.  The Cardinal did his utmost.  If she paused to
rest, he crept close as he dared, and piteously begged: "Come here!
Come here!"

When she took wing, he so dexterously intercepted her course that
several time she found refuge in his sumac without realizing where she
was.  When she did that, he perched just as closely as he dared; and
while they both rested, he sang to her a soft little whispered love
song, deep in his throat; and with every note he gently edged nearer.
She turned her head from him, and although she was panting for breath
and palpitant with fear, the Cardinal knew that he dared not go closer,
or she would dash away like the wild thing she was.  The next time she
took wing, she found him so persistently in her course that she turned
sharply and fled panting to the sumac.  When this had happened so often
that she seemed to recognize the sumac as a place of refuge, the
Cardinal slipped aside and spent all his remaining breath in an
exultant whistle of triumph, for now he was beginning to see his way.
He dashed into mid-air, and with a gyration that would have done credit
to a flycatcher, he snapped up a gadfly that should have been more
alert.

With a tender "Chip!" from branch to branch, slowly, cautiously, he
came with it.  Because he was half starved himself, he knew that she
must be almost famished.  Holding it where she could see, he hopped
toward her, eagerly, carefully, the gadfly in his beak, his heart in
his mouth.  He stretched his neck and legs to the limit as he reached
the fly toward her.  What matter that she took it with a snap, and
plunged a quarter of a mile before eating it?  She had taken food from
him!  That was the beginning.  Cautiously he impelled her toward the
sumac, and with untiring patience kept her there the remainder of the
day.  He carried her every choice morsel he could find in the immediate
vicinity of the sumac, and occasionally she took a bit from his beak,
though oftenest he was compelled to lay it on a limb beside her.  At
dusk she repeatedly dashed toward the underbrush; but the Cardinal,
with endless patience and tenderness, maneuvered her to the sumac,
until she gave up, and beneath the shelter of a neighbouring grapevine,
perched on a limb that was the Cardinal's own chosen resting-place,
tucked her tired head beneath her wing, and went to rest.  When she was
soundly sleeping, the Cardinal crept as closely as he dared, and with
one eye on his little gray love, and the other roving for any possible
danger, he spent a night of watching for any danger that might approach.

He was almost worn out; but this was infinitely better than the
previous night, at any rate, for now he not only knew where she was,
but she was fast asleep in his own favourite place.  Huddled on the
limb, the Cardinal gloated over her.  He found her beauty perfect.  To
be sure, she was dishevelled; but she could make her toilet.  There
were a few feathers gone; but they would grow speedily.  She made a
heart-satisfying picture, on which the Cardinal feasted his love-sick
soul, by the light of every straying moonbeam that slid around the
edges of the grape leaves.

Wave after wave of tender passion shook him.  In his throat half the
night he kept softly calling to her: "Come here! Come here!"

Next morning, when the robins announced day beside the shining river,
she awoke with a start; but before she could decide in which direction
to fly, she discovered a nice fresh grub laid on the limb close to her,
and very sensibly remained for breakfast.  Then the Cardinal went to
the river and bathed.  He made such delightful play of it, and the
splash of the water sounded so refreshing to the tired draggled bird,
that she could not resist venturing for a few dips.  When she was wet
she could not fly well, and he improved the opportunity to pull her
broken quills, help her dress herself, and bestow a few extra caresses.
He guided her to his favourite place for a sun bath; and followed the
farmer's plow in the corn field until he found a big sweet beetle.  He
snapped off its head, peeled the stiff wing shields, and daintily
offered it to her.  He was so delighted when she took it from his beak,
and remained in the sumac to eat it, that he established himself on an
adjoining thorn-bush, where the snowy blossoms of a wild morning-glory
made a fine background for his scarlet coat.  He sang the old pleading
song as he never had sung it before, for now there was a tinge of hope
battling with the fear in his heart.

Over and over he sang, rounding, fulling, swelling every note, leaning
toward her in coaxing tenderness, flashing his brilliant beauty as he
swayed and rocked, for her approval; and all that he had suffered and
all that he hoped for was in his song.  Just when his heart was growing
sick within him, his straining ear caught the faintest, most timid call
a lover ever answered.  Only one imploring, gentle "Chook!" from the
sumac!  His song broke in a suffocating burst of exultation.
Cautiously he hopped from twig to twig toward her.  With tender throaty
murmurings he slowly edged nearer, and wonder of wonders!  with tired
eyes and quivering wings, she reached him her beak for a kiss.

At dinner that day, the farmer said to his wife:

"Maria, if you want to hear the prettiest singin', an' see the cutest
sight you ever saw, jest come down along the line fence an' watch the
antics o' that redbird we been hearin'."

"I don't know as redbirds are so scarce 'at I've any call to wade
through slush a half-mile to see one," answered Maria.

"Footin's pretty good along the line fence," said Abram, "an' you never
saw a redbird like this fellow.  He's as big as any two common ones.
He's so red every bush he lights on looks like it was afire.  It's past
all question, he's been somebody's pet, an' he's taken me for the man.
I can get in six feet of him easy.  He's the finest bird I ever set
eyes on; an' as for singin', he's dropped the weather, an' he's askin'
folks to his housewarmin' to-day.  He's been there alone for a week,
an' his singin's been first-class; but to-day he's picked up a mate,
an' he's as tickled as ever I was.  I am really consarned for fear
he'll burst himself."

Maria sniffed.

"Course, don't come if you're tired, honey," said the farmer.  "I
thought maybe you'd enjoy it.  He's a-doin' me a power o' good.  My
joints are limbered up till I catch myself pretty near runnin', on the
up furrow, an' then, down towards the fence, I go slow so's to stay
near him as long as I can."

Maria stared.  "Abram Johnson, have you gone daft?" she demanded.

Abram chuckled.  "Not a mite dafter'n you'll be, honey, once you set
eyes on the fellow.  Better come, if you can.  You're invited. He's
askin' the whole endurin' country to come."

Maria said nothing more; but she mentally decided she had no time to
fool with a bird, when there were housekeeping and spring sewing to do.
As she recalled Abram's enthusiastic praise of the singer, and had a
whiff of the odour-laden air as she passed from kitchen to
spring-house, she was compelled to admit that it was a temptation to
go; but she finished her noon work and resolutely sat down with her
needle.  She stitched industriously, her thread straightening with a
quick nervous sweep, learned through years of experience; and if her
eyes wandered riverward, and if she paused frequently with arrested
hand and listened intently, she did not realize it.  By two o'clock, a
spirit of unrest that demanded recognition had taken possession of her.
Setting her lips firmly, a scowl clouding her brow, she stitched on.
By half past two her hands dropped in her lap, Abram's new hickory
shirt slid to the floor, and she hesitatingly arose and crossed the
room to the closet, from which she took her overshoes, and set them by
the kitchen fire, to have them ready in case she wanted them.

"Pshaw!" she muttered, "I got this shirt to finish this afternoon.
There's butter an' bakin' in the mornin', an' Mary Jane Simms is comin'
for a visit in the afternoon."

She returned to the window and took up the shirt, sewing with unusual
swiftness for the next half-hour; but by three she dropped it, and
opening the kitchen door, gazed toward the river.  Every intoxicating
delight of early spring was in the air.  The breeze that fanned her
cheek was laden with subtle perfume of pollen and the crisp fresh odour
of unfolding leaves.  Curling skyward, like a beckoning finger, went a
spiral of violet and gray smoke from the log heap Abram was burning;
and scattered over spaces of a mile were half a dozen others, telling a
story of the activity of his neighbours.  Like the low murmur of
distant music came the beating wings of hundreds of her bees, rimming
the water trough, insane with thirst.  On the wood-pile the guinea cock
clattered incessantly: "Phut rack! Phut rack!" Across the dooryard came
the old turkey-gobbler with fan tail and a rasping scrape of wing,
evincing his delight in spring and mating time by a series of explosive
snorts.  On the barnyard gate the old Shanghai was lustily challenging
to mortal combat one of his kind three miles across country.  From the
river arose the strident scream of her blue gander jealously guarding
his harem.  In the poultry-yard the hens made a noisy cackling party,
and the stable lot was filled with cattle bellowing for the freedom of
the meadow pasture, as yet scarcely ready for grazing.

It seemed to the little woman, hesitating in the doorway, as if all
nature had entered into a conspiracy to lure her from her work, and
just then, clear and imperious, arose the demand of the Cardinal: "Come
here! Come here!"

Blank amazement filled her face.  "As I'm a livin' woman!" she gasped.
"He's changed his song!  That's what Abram meant by me bein' invited.
He's askin' folks to see his mate.  I'm goin'."

The dull red of excitement sprang into her cheeks.  She hurried on her
overshoes, and drew an old shawl over her head.  She crossed the
dooryard, followed the path through the orchard, and came to the lane.
Below the barn she turned back and attempted to cross. The mud was deep
and thick, and she lost an overshoe; but with the help of a stick she
pried it out, and replaced it.

"Joke on me if I'd a-tumbled over in this mud," she muttered.

She entered the barn, and came out a minute later, carefully closing
and buttoning the door, and started down the line fence toward the
river.

Half-way across the field Abram saw her coming.  No need to recount how
often he had looked in that direction during the afternoon.  He slapped
the lines on the old gray's back and came tearing down the slope, his
eyes flashing, his cheeks red, his hands firmly gripping the plow that
rolled up a line of black mould as he passed.

Maria, staring at his flushed face and shining eyes, recognized that
his whole being proclaimed an inward exultation.

"Abram Johnson," she solemnly demanded, "have you got the power?"

"Yes," cried Abram, pulling off his old felt hat, and gazing into the
crown as if for inspiration.  "You've said it, honey!  I got the power!
Got it of a little red bird! Power o' spring!  Power o' song!  Power o'
love!  If that poor little red target for some ornery cuss's bullet can
get all he's getting out o' life to-day, there's no cause why a
reasonin' thinkin' man shouldn't realize some o' his blessings.  You
hit it, Maria; I got the power.  It's the power o' God, but I learned
how to lay hold of it from that little red bird.  Come here, Maria!"

Abram wrapped the lines around the plow handle, and cautiously led his
wife to the fence.  He found a piece of thick bark for her to stand on,
and placed her where she would be screened by a big oak.  Then he stood
behind her and pointed out the sumac and the female bird.

"Jest you keep still a minute, an' you'll feel paid for comin' all
right, honey," he whispered, "but don't make any sudden movement."

"I don't know as I ever saw a worse-lookin' specimen 'an she is,"
answered Maria.

"She looks first-class to him.  There's no kick comin' on his part, I
can tell you," replied Abram.

The bride hopped shyly through the sumac.  She pecked at the dried
berries, and frequently tried to improve her plumage, which certainly
had been badly draggled; and there was a drop of blood dried at the
base of her beak.  She plainly showed the effects of her rough
experience, and yet she was a most attractive bird; for the dimples in
her plump body showed through the feathers, and instead of the usual
wickedly black eyes of the cardinal family, hers were a soft tender
brown touched by a love-light there was no mistaking.  She was a
beautiful bird, and she was doing all in her power to make herself
dainty again.  Her movements clearly indicated how timid she was, and
yet she remained in the sumac as if she feared to leave it; and
frequently peered expectantly among the tree-tops.

There was a burst of exultation down the river.  The little bird gave
her plumage a fluff, and watched anxiously.  On came the Cardinal like
a flaming rocket, calling to her on wing.  He alighted beside her,
dropped into her beak a morsel of food, gave her a kiss to aid
digestion, caressingly ran his beak the length of her wing quills, and
flew to the dogwood.  Mrs. Cardinal enjoyed the meal.  It struck her
palate exactly right.  She liked the kiss and caress, cared, in fact,
for all that he did for her, and with the appreciation of his
tenderness came repentance for the dreadful chase she had led him in
her foolish fright, and an impulse to repay.  She took a dainty hop
toward the dogwood, and the invitation she sent him was exquisite.
With a shrill whistle of exultant triumph the Cardinal answered at a
headlong rush.

The farmer's grip tightened on his wife's shoulder, but Maria turned
toward him with blazing, tear-filled eyes.  "An' you call yourself a
decent man, Abram Johnson?"

"Decent?" quavered the astonished Abram.  "Decent?  I believe I am."

"I believe you ain't," hotly retorted his wife.  "You don't know what
decency is, if you go peekin' at them.  They ain't birds!  They're
folks!"

"Maria," pled Abram, "Maria, honey."

"I am plumb ashamed of you," broke in Maria.  "How d'you s'pose she'd
feel if she knew there was a man here peekin' at her?  Ain't she got a
right to be lovin' and tender? Ain't she got a right to pay him best
she knows?  They're jest common human bein's, an' I don't know where
you got privilege to spy on a female when she's doin' the best she
knows."

Maria broke from his grasp and started down the line fence.

In a few strides Abram had her in his arms, his withered cheek with its
springtime bloom pressed against her equally withered, tear-stained one.

"Maria," he whispered, waveringly, "Maria, honey, I wasn't meanin' any
disrespect to the sex."

Maria wiped her eyes on the corner of her shawl.  "I don't s'pose you
was, Abram," she admitted; "but you're jest like all the rest o' the
men.  You never think!  Now you go on with your plowin' an' let that
little female alone."

She unclasped his arms and turned homeward.

"Honey," called Abram softly, "since you brought 'em that pocketful o'
wheat, you might as well let me have it."

"Landy!" exclaimed Maria, blushing; "I plumb forgot my wheat!  I
thought maybe, bein' so early, pickin' was scarce, an' if you'd put out
a little wheat an' a few crumbs, they'd stay an' nest in the sumac, as
you're so fond o' them."

"Jest what I'm fairly prayin' they'll do, an' I been carryin' stuff an'
pettin' him up best I knowed for a week," said Abram, as he knelt, and
cupped his shrunken hands, while Maria guided the wheat from her apron
into them.  "I'll scatter it along the top rail, an' they'll be after
it in fifteen minutes.  Thank you, Maria.  'T was good o' you to think
of it."

Maria watched him steadily.  How dear he was! How dear he always had
been!  How happy they were together! "Abram," she asked, hesitatingly,
"is there anything else I could do for--your birds?"

They were creatures of habitual repression, and the inner glimpses they
had taken of each other that day were surprises they scarcely knew how
to meet.  Abram said nothing, because he could not.  He slowly shook
his head, and turned to the plow, his eyes misty.  Maria started toward
the line fence, but she paused repeatedly to listen; and it was no
wonder, for all the redbirds from miles down the river had gathered
around the sumac to see if there were a battle in birdland; but it was
only the Cardinal, turning somersaults in the air, and screaming with
bursting exuberance: "Come here! Come here!"



Chapter 4

"So dear! So dear!" crooned the Cardinal


She had taken possession of the sumac.  The location was her selection
and he loudly applauded her choice.  She placed the first twig, and
after examining it carefully, he spent the day carrying her others just
as much alike as possible.  If she used a dried grass blade, he carried
grass blades until she began dropping them on the ground.  If she
worked in a bit of wild grape-vine bark, he peeled grape-vines until
she would have no more.  It never occurred to him that he was the
largest cardinal in the woods, in those days, and he had forgotten that
he wore a red coat.  She was not a skilled architect.  Her nest
certainly was a loose ramshackle affair; but she had built it, and had
allowed him to help her.  It was hers; and he improvised a paean in its
praise.  Every morning he perched on the edge of the nest and gazed in
songless wonder at each beautiful new egg; and whenever she came to
brood she sat as if entranced, eyeing her treasures in an ecstasy of
proud possession.

Then she nestled them against her warm breast, and turned adoring eyes
toward the Cardinal.  If he sang from the dogwood, she faced that way.
If he rocked on the wild grape-vine, she turned in her nest.  If he
went to the corn field for grubs, she stood astride her eggs and peered
down, watching his every movement with unconcealed anxiety.  The
Cardinal forgot to be vain of his beauty; she delighted in it every
hour of the day.  Shy and timid beyond belief she had been during her
courtship; but she made reparation by being an incomparably generous
and devoted mate.

And the Cardinal! He was astonished to find himself capable of so much
and such varied feeling.  It was not enough that he brooded while she
went to bathe and exercise.  The daintiest of every morsel he found was
carried to her.  When she refused to swallow another particle, he
perched on a twig close by the nest many 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
redbird of late?  He's changed to a new tune, an' this time I'm
completely stalled.  I can't for the life of me make out what he's
saying.  S'pose you step down to-morrow an' see if you can catch it for
me.  I'd give a pretty to know!"

Maria felt flattered.  She always had believed that she had a musical
ear.  Here was an opportunity to test it and please Abram at the same
time.  She hastened her work the following morning, and very early
slipped along the line fence.  Hiding behind the oak, with straining
ear and throbbing heart, she eagerly listened.  "Clip, clip," came the
sound of the planter, as Abram's dear old figure trudged up the hill.
"Chip! Chip!" came the warning of the Cardinal, as he flew to his mate.

He gave her some food, stroked her wing, and flying to the dogwood,
sang of the love that encompassed him.  As he trilled forth his tender
caressing strain, the heart of the listening woman translated as did
that of the brooding bird.

With shining eyes and flushed cheeks, she sped down the fence.  Panting
and palpitating with excitement, she met Abram half-way on his return
trip.  Forgetful of her habitual reserve, she threw her arms around his
neck, and drawing his face to hers, she cried: "Oh, Abram!  I got it!
I got it!  I know what he's saying! Oh, Abram, my love!  My own!  To me
so dear!  So dear!"

"So dear!  So dear!" echoed the Cardinal.

The bewilderment in Abram's face melted into comprehension.  He swept
Maria from her feet as he lifted his head.

"On my soul!  You have got it, honey!  That's what he's saying, plain
as gospel!  I can tell it plainer'n anything he's sung yet, now I sense
it."

He gathered Maria in his arms, pressed her head against his breast with
a trembling old hand, while the face he turned to the morning was
beautiful.

"I wish to God," he said quaveringly, "'at every creature on earth was
as well fixed as me an' the redbird!" Clasping each other, they
listened with rapt faces, as, mellowing across the corn field, came the
notes of the Cardinal: "So dear! So dear!"

After that Abram's devotion to his bird family became a mild mania.  He
carried food to the top rail of the line fence every day, rain or
shine, with the same regularity that he curried and fed Nancy in the
barn.  From caring for and so loving the Cardinal, there grew in his
tender old heart a welling flood of sympathy for every bird that homed
on his farm.

He drove a stake to mark the spot where the killdeer hen brooded in the
corn field, so that he would not drive Nancy over the nest.  When he
closed the bars at the end of the lane, he always was careful to leave
the third one down, for there was a chippy brooding in the opening
where it fitted when closed.  Alders and sweetbriers grew in his fence
corners undisturbed that spring if he discovered that they sheltered an
anxious-eyed little mother.  He left a square yard of clover unmowed,
because it seemed to him that the lark, singing nearer the Throne than
any other bird, was picking up stray notes dropped by the Invisible
Choir, and with unequalled purity and tenderness, sending them ringing
down to his brooding mate, whose home and happiness would be despoiled
by the reaping of that spot of green.  He delayed burning the
brush-heap from the spring pruning, back of the orchard, until fall,
when he found it housed a pair of fine thrushes; for the song of the
thrush delighted him almost as much as that of the lark.  He left a
hollow limb on the old red pearmain apple-tree, because when he came to
cut it there was a pair of bluebirds twittering around, frantic with
anxiety.

His pockets were bulgy with wheat and crumbs, and his heart was big
with happiness.  It was the golden springtime of his later life.  The
sky never had seemed so blue, or the earth so beautiful.  The Cardinal
had opened the fountains of his soul; life took on a new colour and
joy; while every work of God manifested a fresh and heretofore
unappreciated loveliness.  His very muscles seemed to relax, and new
strength arose to meet the demands of his uplifted spirit.  He had not
finished his day's work with such ease and pleasure in years; and he
could see the influence of his rejuvenation in Maria.  She was flitting
around her house with broken snatches of song, even sweeter to Abram's
ears than the notes of the birds; and in recent days he had noticed
that she dressed particularly for her afternoon's sewing, putting on
her Sunday lace collar and a white apron.  He immediately went to town
and bought her a finer collar than she ever had owned in her life.

Then he hunted a sign painter, and came home bearing a number of pine
boards on which gleamed in big, shiny black letters:

  +----------------------+
  |  NO HUNTING ALLOWED  |
  |     ON THIS FARM     |
  +----------------------+


He seemed slightly embarrassed when he showed them to Maria.  "I feel a
little mite onfriendly, putting up signs like that 'fore my
neighbours," he admitted, "but the fact is, it ain't the neighbours so
much as it's boys that need raising, an' them town creatures who call
themselves sportsmen, an' kill a hummin'-bird to see if they can hit
it.  Time was when trees an' underbrush were full o' birds an'
squirrels, any amount o' rabbits, an' the fish fairly crowdin' in the
river.  I used to kill all the quail an' wild turkeys about here a body
needed to make an appetizing change, It was always my plan to take a
little an' leave a little.  But jest look at it now.  Surprise o' my
life if I get a two-pound bass.  Wild turkey gobblin' would scare me
most out of my senses, an', as for the birds, there are jest about a
fourth what there used to be, an' the crops eaten to pay for it.  I'd
do all I'm tryin' to for any bird, because of its song an' colour, an'
pretty teeterin' ways, but I ain't so slow but I see I'm paid in what
they do for me.  Up go these signs, an' it won't be a happy day for
anybody I catch trespassin' on my birds."

Maria studied the signs meditatively.  "You shouldn't be forced to put
'em up," she said conclusively.  "If it's been decided 'at it's good
for 'em to be here, an' laws made to protect 'em, people ought to act
with some sense, an' leave them alone.  I never was so int'rested in
the birds in all my life; an' I'll jest do a little lookin' out myself.
If you hear a spang o' the dinner bell when you're out in the field,
you'll know it means there's some one sneakin' 'round with a gun."

Abram caught Maria, and planted a resounding smack on her cheek, where
the roses of girlhood yet bloomed for him.  Then he filled his pockets
with crumbs and grain, and strolled to the river to set the Cardinal's
table.  He could hear the sharp incisive "Chip!" and the tender mellow
love-notes as he left the barn; and all the way to the sumac they rang
in his ears.

The Cardinal met him at the corner of the field, and hopped over bushes
and the fence only a few yards from him.  When Abram had scattered his
store on the rail, the bird came tipping and tilting, daintily caught
up a crumb, and carried it to the sumac.  His mate was pleased to take
it; and he carried her one morsel after another until she refused to
open her beak for more.  He made a light supper himself; and then
swinging on the grape-vine, he closed the day with an hour of music.
He repeatedly turned a bright questioning eye toward Abram, but he
never for a moment lost sight of the nest and the plump gray figure of
his little mate.  As she brooded over her eggs, he brooded over her;
and that she might realize the depth and constancy of his devotion, he
told her repeatedly, with every tender inflection he could throw into
his tones, that she was "So dear! So dear!"

The Cardinal had not known that the coming of the mate he so coveted
would fill his life with such unceasing gladness, and yet, on the very
day that happiness seemed at fullest measure, there was trouble in the
sumac.  He had overstayed his time, chasing a fat moth he particularly
wanted for his mate, and she, growing thirsty past endurance, left the
nest and went to the river.  Seeing her there, he made all possible
haste to take his turn at brooding, so he arrived just in time to see a
pilfering red squirrel starting away with an egg.

With a vicious scream the Cardinal struck him full force.  His rush of
rage cost the squirrel an eye; but it lost the father a birdling, for
the squirrel dropped the egg outside the nest.  The Cardinal mournfully
carried away the tell-tale bits of shell, so that any one seeing them
would not look up and discover his treasures.  That left three eggs;
and the brooding bird mourned over the lost one so pitifully that the
Cardinal perched close to the nest the remainder of the day, and
whispered over and over for her comfort that she was "So dear! So dear!"



Chapter 5

"See here! See here!" demanded the Cardinal


The mandate repeatedly rang from the topmost twig of the thorn tree,
and yet the Cardinal was not in earnest.  He was beside himself with a
new and delightful excitement, and he found it impossible to refrain
from giving vent to his feelings.  He was commanding the farmer and
every furred and feathered denizen of the river bottom to see; then he
fought like a wild thing if any of them ventured close, for great
things were happening in the sumac.

In past days the Cardinal had brooded an hour every morning while his
mate went to take her exercise, bathe, and fluff in the sun parlour.
He had gone to her that morning as usual, and she looked at him with
anxious eyes and refused to move.  He had hopped to the very edge of
the nest and repeatedly urged her to go.  She only ruffled her
feathers, and nestled the eggs she was brooding to turn them, but did
not offer to leave.  The Cardinal reached over and gently nudged her
with his beak, to remind her that it was his time to brood; but she
looked at him almost savagely, and gave him a sharp peck; so he knew
she was not to be bothered.  He carried her every dainty he could find
and hovered near her, tense with anxiety.

It was late in the afternoon before she went after the drink for which
she was half famished.  She scarcely had reached a willow and bent over
the water before the Cardinal was on the edge of the nest.  He examined
it closely, but he could see no change.  He leaned to give the eggs
careful scrutiny, and from somewhere there came to him the faintest
little "Chip!" he ever had heard.  Up went the Cardinal's crest, and he
dashed to the willow.  There was no danger in sight; and his mate was
greedily dipping her rosy beak in the water.  He went back to the
cradle and listened intently, and again that feeble cry came to him.
Under the nest, around it, and all through the sumac he searched, until
at last, completely baffled, he came back to the edge.  The sound was
so much plainer there, that he suddenly leaned, caressing the eggs with
his beak; then the Cardinal knew!  He had heard the first faint cries
of his shell-incased babies!

With a wild scream he made a flying leap through the air.  His heart
was beating to suffocation.  He started in a race down the river.  If
he alighted on a bush he took only one swing, and springing from it
flamed on in headlong flight.  He flashed to the top of the tallest
tulip tree, and cried cloudward to the lark: "See here! See here!"  He
dashed to the river bank and told the killdeers, and then visited the
underbrush and informed the thrushes and wood robins.  Father-tender,
he grew so delirious with joy that he forgot his habitual aloofness,
and fraternized with every bird beside the shining river.  He even laid
aside his customary caution, went chipping into the sumac, and caressed
his mate so boisterously she gazed at him severely and gave his wing a
savage pull to recall him to his sober senses.

That night the Cardinal slept in the sumac, very close to his mate, and
he shut only one eye at a time.  Early in the morning, when he carried
her the first food, he found that she was on the edge of the nest,
dropping bits of shell outside; and creeping to peep, he saw the
tiniest coral baby, with closed eyes, and little patches of soft silky
down.  Its beak was wide open, and though his heart was even fuller
than on the previous day, the Cardinal knew what that meant; and
instead of indulging in another celebration, he assumed the duties of
paternity, and began searching for food, for now there were two empty
crops in his family.  On the following day there were four.  Then he
really worked.  How eagerly he searched, and how gladly he flew to the
sumac with every rare morsel!  The babies were too small for the mother
to leave; and for the first few days the Cardinal was constantly on
wing.

If he could not find sufficiently dainty food for them in the trees and
bushes, or among the offerings of the farmer, he descended to earth and
searched like a wood robin.  He forgot he needed a bath or owned a sun
parlour; but everywhere he went, from his full heart there constantly
burst the cry:

"See here! See here!"

His mate made never a sound.  Her eyes were bigger and softer than
ever, and in them glowed a steady lovelight.  She hovered over those
three red mites of nestlings so tenderly!  She was so absorbed in
feeding, stroking, and coddling them she neglected herself until she
became quite lean.

When the Cardinal came every few minutes with food, she was a picture
of love and gratitude for his devoted attention, and once she reached
over and softly kissed his wing.  "See here! See here!" shrilled the
Cardinal; and in his ecstasy he again forgot himself and sang in the
sumac.  Then he carried food with greater activity than ever to cover
his lapse.

The farmer knew that it lacked an hour of noon, but he was so anxious
to tell Maria the news that he could not endure the suspense another
minute.  There was a new song from the sumac.  He had heard it as he
turned the first corner with the shovel plow. He had listened eagerly,
and had caught the meaning almost at once--"See here! See here!"  He
tied the old gray mare to the fence to prevent her eating the young
corn, and went immediately.  By leaning a rail against the thorn tree
he was able to peer into the sumac, and take a good look at the nest of
handsome birdlings, now well screened with the umbrella-like foliage.
It seemed to Abram that he never could wait until noon.  He critically
examined the harness, in the hope that he would find a buckle missing,
and tried to discover a flaw in the plow that would send him to the
barn for a file; but he could not invent an excuse for going.  So, when
he had waited until an hour of noon, he could endure it no longer.

"Got news for you, Maria," he called from the well, where he was making
a pretense of thirst.

"Oh I don't know," answered Maria, with a superior smile.  "If it's
about the redbirds, he's been up to the garden three times this morning
yellin', 'See here!' fit to split; an' I jest figured that their little
ones had hatched.  Is that your news?"

"Well I be durned!" gasped the astonished Abram.

Mid-afternoon Abram turned Nancy and started the plow down a row that
led straight to the sumac.  He intended to stop there, tie to the
fence, and go to the river bank, in the shade, for a visit with the
Cardinal.  It was very warm, and he was feeling the heat so much, that
in his heart he knew he would be glad to reach the end of the row and
the rest he had promised himself.

The quick nervous strokes of the dinner bell, "Clang! Clang!" came
cutting the air clearly and sharply.  Abram stopped Nancy with a jerk.
It was the warning Maria had promised to send him if she saw prowlers
with guns.  He shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the points of
the compass through narrowed lids with concentrated vision.  He first
caught a gleam of light playing on a gun-barrel, and then he could
discern the figure of a man clad in hunter's outfit leisurely walking
down the lane, toward the river.

Abram hastily hitched Nancy to the fence.  By making the best time he
could, he reached the opposite corner, and was nibbling the midrib of a
young corn blade and placidly viewing the landscape when the hunter
passed.

"Howdy!" he said in an even cordial voice.

The hunter walked on without lifting his eyes or making audible reply.
To Abram's friendly oldfashioned heart this seemed the rankest
discourtesy; and there was a flash in his eye and a certain quality in
his voice he lifted a hand for parley.

"Hold a minute, my friend," he said.  "Since you are on my premises,
might I be privileged to ask if you have seen a few signs 'at I have
posted pertainin' to the use of a gun?"

"I am not blind," replied the hunter; "and my education has been looked
after to the extent that I can make out your notices.  From the number
and size of them, I think I could do it, old man, if I had no eyes."

The scarcely suppressed sneer, and the "old man" grated on Abram's
nerves amazingly, for a man of sixty years of peace.  The gleam in his
eyes grew stronger, and there was a perceptible lift of his shoulders
as he answered:

"I meant 'em to be read an' understood!  From the main road passin'
that cabin up there on the bank, straight to the river, an' from the
furthermost line o' this field to the same, is my premises, an' on
every foot of 'em the signs are in full force.  They're in a little
fuller force in June, when half the bushes an' tufts o' grass are
housin' a young bird family, 'an at any other time.  They're sort o'
upholdin' the legislature's act, providing for the protection o' game
an' singin' birds; an' maybe it 'ud be well for you to notice 'at I'm
not so old but I'm able to stand up for my right to any livin' man."

There certainly was an added tinge of respect in the hunter's tones as
he asked:  "Would you consider it trespass if a man simply crossed your
land, following the line of the fences to reach the farm of a friend?"

"Certainly not!" cried Abram, cordial in his relief.  "To be sure not!
Glad to have you convenience yourself.  I only wanted to jest call to
your notice 'at the BIRDS are protected on this farm."

"I have no intention of interfering with your precious birds, I assure
you," replied the hunter.  "And if you require an explanation of the
gun in June, I confess I did hope to be able to pick off a squirrel for
a very sick friend.  But I suppose for even such cause it would not be
allowed on your premises."

"Oh pshaw now!" said Abram.  "Man alive! I'm not onreasonable.  O'
course in case o' sickness I'd be glad if you could run across a
squirrel.  All I wanted was to have a clear understandin' about the
birds.  Good luck, an' good day to you!"

Abram started across the field to Nancy, but he repeatedly turned to
watch the gleam of the gun-barrel, as the hunter rounded the corner and
started down the river bank.  He saw him leave the line of the fence
and disappear in the thicket.

"Goin' straight for the sumac," muttered Abram.  "It's likely I'm a
fool for not stayin' right beside him past that point.  An' yet--I made
it fair an' plain, an' he passed his word 'at he wouldn't touch the
birds."

He untied Nancy, and for the second time started toward the sumac.  He
had been plowing carefully, his attention divided between the mare and
the corn; but he uprooted half that row, for his eyes wandered to the
Cardinal's home as if he were fascinated, and his hands were shaking
with undue excitement as he gripped the plow handles.  At last he
stopped Nancy, and stood gazing eagerly toward the river.

"Must be jest about the sumac," he whispered.  "Lord! but I'll be glad
to see the old gun-barrel gleamin' safe t'other side o' it."

There was a thin puff of smoke, and a screaming echo went rolling and
reverberating down the Wabash.  Abram's eyes widened, and a curious
whiteness settled on his lips.  He stood as if incapable of moving.
"Clang! Clang!" came Maria's second warning.

The trembling slid from him, and his muscles hardened.  There was no
trace of rheumatic stiffness in his movements.  With a bound he struck
the chain-traces from the singletree at Nancy's heels.  He caught the
hames, leaped on her back, and digging his heels into her sides, he
stretched along her neck like an Indian and raced across the corn
field.  Nancy's twenty years slipped from her as her master's sixty had
from him.  Without understanding the emergency, she knew that he
required all the speed there was in her; and with trace-chains rattling
and beating on her heels, she stretched out until she fairly swept the
young corn, as she raced for the sumac.  Once Abram straightened, and
slipping a hand into his pocket, drew out a formidable jack-knife,
opening it as he rode.  When he reached the fence, he almost flew over
Nancy's head.  He went into a fence corner, and with a few slashes
severed a stout hickory withe, stripping the leaves and topping it as
he leaped the fence.

He grasped this ugly weapon, his eyes dark with anger as he appeared
before the hunter, who supposed him at the other side of the field.

"Did you shoot at that redbird?" he roared.

As his gun was at the sportman's shoulder, and he was still peering
among the bushes, denial seemed useless.  "Yes, I did," he replied, and
made a pretense of turning to the sumac again.

There was a forward impulse of Abram's body.  "Hit 'im?" he demanded
with awful calm.

"Thought I had, but I guess I only winged him."

Abram's fingers closed around his club.  At the sound of his friend's
voice, the Cardinal came darting through the bushes a wavering flame,
and swept so closely to him for protection that a wing almost brushed
his cheek.

"See here! See here!" shrilled the bird in deadly panic.  There was not
a cut feather on him.

Abram's relief was so great he seemed to shrink an inch in height.

"Young man, you better thank your God you missed that bird," he said
solemnly, "for if you'd killed him, I'd a-mauled this stick to ribbons
on you, an' I'm most afraid I wouldn't a-knowed when to quit."

He advanced a step in his eagerness, and the hunter, mistaking his
motive, levelled his gun.

"Drop that!" shouted Abram, as he broke through the bushes that clung
to him, tore the clothing from his shoulders, and held him back.  "Drop
that!  Don't you dare point a weapon at me; on my own premises, an'
after you passed your word.

"Your word!" repeated Abram, with withering scorn, his white, quivering
old face terrible to see.  "Young man, I got a couple o' things to say
to you.  You'r' shaped like a man, an' you'r' dressed like a man, an'
yet the smartest person livin' would never take you for anything but an
egg-suckin' dog, this minute.  All the time God ever spent on you was
wasted, an' your mother's had the same luck.  I s'pose God's used to
having creatures 'at He's made go wrong, but I pity your mother.
Goodness knows a woman suffers an' works enough over her children, an'
then to fetch a boy to man's estate an' have him, of his own free will
an' accord, be a liar!  Young man, truth is the cornerstone o' the
temple o' character.  Nobody can put up a good buildin' without a solid
foundation; an' you can't do solid character buildin' with a lie at the
base.  Man 'at's a liar ain't fit for anything!  Can't trust him in no
sphere or relation o' life; or in any way, shape, or manner.  You
passed out your word like a man, an' like a man I took it an' went off
trustin' you, an' you failed me.  Like as not that squirrel story was a
lie, too!  Have you got a sick friend who is needin' squirrel broth?"

The hunter shook his head.

"No?  That wasn't true either?  I'll own you make me curious.  'Ud you
mind tellin' me what was your idy in cookin' up that squirrel story?"

The hunter spoke with an effort.  "I suppose I wanted to do something
to make you feel small," he admitted, in a husky voice.

"You wanted to make me feel small," repeated Abram, wonderingly.
"Lord!  Lord!  Young man, did you ever hear o' a boomerang?  It's a
kind o' weapon used in Borneo, er Australy, er some o' them furrin
parts, an' it's so made 'at the heathens can pitch it, an' it cuts a
circle an' comes back to the fellow, at throwed.  I can't see myself,
an' I don't know how small I'm lookin'; but I'd rather lose ten year o'
my life 'an to have anybody catch me lookin' as little as you do right
now.  I guess we look about the way we feel in this world.  I'm feelin'
near the size o' Goliath at present; but your size is such 'at it
hustles me to see any MAN in you at all.  An' you wanted to make me
feel small!  My, oh, my!  An' you so young yet, too!

"An' if it hadn't a-compassed a matter o' breakin' your word, what 'ud
you want to kill the redbird for, anyhow? Who give you rights to go
'round takin' such beauty an' joy out of the world?  Who do you think
made this world an' the things 'at's in it?  Maybe it's your notion 'at
somebody about your size whittled it from a block o' wood, scattered a
little sand for earth, stuck a few seeds for trees, an' started the
oceans with a waterin' pot!  I don't know what paved streets an' stall
feedin' do for a man, but any one 'at's lived sixty year on the ground
knows 'at this whole old earth is jest teemin' with work 'at's too big
for anything but a God, an' a mighty BIG God at that!

"You don't never need bother none 'bout the diskivries o' science, for
if science could prove 'at the earth was a red hot slag broken from the
sun, 'at balled an' cooled flyin' through space until the force o'
gravity caught an' held it, it doesn't prove what the sun broke from,
or why it balled an' didn't cool.  Sky over your head, earth under
foot, trees around you, an' river there--all full o' life 'at you ain't
no mortal right to touch, 'cos God made it, an' it's His!  Course, I
know 'at He said distinct 'at man was to have `dominion over the beasts
o' the field, an' the fowls o' the air' An' that means 'at you're free
to smash a copperhead instead of letting it sting you.  Means 'at you
better shoot a wolf than to let it carry off your lambs.  Means, at
it's right to kill a hawk an' save your chickens; but God knows 'at
shootin' a redbird just to see the feathers fly isn't having dominion
over anything; it's jest makin' a plumb beast o' YERSELF.  Passes me,
how you can face up to the Almighty, an' draw a bead on a thing like
that! Takes more gall'n I got!

"God never made anything prettier 'an that bird, an' He must a-been
mighty proud o' the job.  Jest cast your eyes on it there!  Ever see
anything so runnin' over with dainty, pretty, coaxin' ways?  Little red
creatures, full o' hist'ry, too! Ever think o' that?  Last year's bird,
hatched hereabout, like as not.  Went South for winter, an' made
friends 'at's been feedin', an' teachin' it to TRUST mankind.  Back
this spring in a night, an' struck that sumac over a month ago.  Broke
me all up first time I ever set eyes on it.

"Biggest reddest redbird I ever saw; an' jest a master hand at king's
English!  Talk plain as you can!  Don't know what he said down South,
but you can bank on it, it was sumpin' pretty fine.  When he settled
here, he was discoursin' on the weather, an' he talked it out about
proper.  He'd say, `Wet year! Wet year!' jest like that!  He got the
`wet' jest as good as I can, an', if he drawed the `ye-ar' out a
little, still any blockhead could a-told what he was sayin', an' in a
voice pretty an' clear as a bell.  Then he got love-sick, an' begged
for comp'ny until he broke me all up.  An' if I'd a-been a hen redbird
I wouldn't a-been so long comin'.  Had me pulverized in less'n no time!
Then a little hen comes 'long, an' stops with him; an' 'twas like an
organ playin' prayers to hear him tell her how he loved her. Now
they've got a nest full o' the cunningest little topknot babies, an'
he's splittin' the echoes, calling for the whole neighbourhood to come
see 'em, he's so mortal proud.

"Stake my life he's never been fired on afore!  He's pretty near wild
with narvousness, but he's got too much spunk to leave his fam'ly, an'
go off an' hide from creatures like you.  They's no caution in him.
Look at him tearin' 'round to give you another chance!

"I felt most too rheumaticky to tackle field work this spring until he
come 'long, an' the fire o' his coat an' song got me warmed up as I
ain't been in years.  Work's gone like it was greased, an' my soul's
been singin' for joy o' life an' happiness ev'ry minute o' the time
since he come.  Been carryin' him grub to that top rail once an' twice
a day for the last month, an' I can go in three feet o' him.  My wife
comes to see him, an' brings him stuff; an' we about worship him.  Who
are you, to come 'long an' wipe out his joy in life, an' our joy in
him, for jest nothin'? You'd a left him to rot on the ground, if you'd
a hit him; an' me an' Maria's loved him so!

"D'you ever stop to think how full this world is o' things to love, if
your heart's jest big enough to let 'em in?  We love to live for the
beauty o' the things surroundin' us, an' the joy we take in bein' among
'em.  An' it's my belief 'at the way to make folks love us, is for us
to be able to 'preciate what they can do.  If a man's puttin' his heart
an' soul, an' blood, an' beef-steak, an' bones into paintin' picters,
you can talk farmin' to him all day, an' he's dumb; but jest show him
'at you see what he's a-drivin' at in his work, an' he'll love you like
a brother.  Whatever anybody succeeds in, it's success 'cos they so
love it 'at they put the best o' theirselves into it; an' so, lovin'
what they do, is lovin' them.

"It 'ud 'bout kill a painter-man to put the best o' himself into his
picture, an' then have some fellow like you come 'long an' pour
turpentine on it jest to see the paint run; an' I think it must pretty
well use God up, to figure out how to make an' colour a thing like that
bird, an' then have you walk up an' shoot the little red heart out of
it, jest to prove 'at you can! He's the very life o' this river bank.
I'd as soon see you dig up the underbrush, an' dry up the river, an'
spoil the picture they make against the sky, as to hev' you drop the
redbird.  He's the red life o' the whole thing!  God must a-made him
when his heart was pulsin' hot with love an' the lust o' creatin'
in-com-PAR-able things; an' He jest saw how pretty it 'ud be to dip his
featherin' into the blood He was puttin' in his veins.

"To my mind, ain't no better way to love an' worship God, 'an to
protect an' 'preciate these fine gifts He's given for our joy an' use.
Worshipin' that bird's a kind o' religion with me.  Getting the beauty
from the sky, an' the trees, an' the grass, an' the water 'at God made,
is nothin' but doin' Him homage.  Whole earth's a sanctuary.  You can
worship from sky above to grass under foot.

"Course, each man has his particular altar.  Mine's in that cabin up at
the bend o' the river.  Maria lives there.  God never did cleaner work,
'an when He made Maria.  Lovin, her's sacrament.  She's so clean, an'
pure, an' honest, an' big-hearted!  In forty year I've never jest durst
brace right up to Maria an' try to put in words what she means to me.
Never saw nothin' else as beautiful, or as good.  No flower's as
fragrant an' smelly as her hair on her pillow.  Never tapped a bee tree
with honey sweet as her lips a-twitchin' with a love quiver.  Ain't a
bird 'long the ol' Wabash with a voice up to hers.  Love o' God ain't
broader'n her kindness.  When she's been home to see her folks, I've
been so hungry for her 'at I've gone to her closet an' kissed the hem
o' her skirts more'n once.  I've never yet dared kiss her feet, but
I've always wanted to.  I've laid out 'at if she dies first, I'll do it
then.  An' Maria 'ud cry her eyes out if you'd a-hit the redbird.  Your
trappin's look like you could shoot.  I guess 'twas God made that shot
fly the mark.  I guess--"

"If you can stop, for the love of mercy do it!" cried the hunter.

His face was a sickly white, his temples wet with sweat, and his body
trembling.  "I can't endure any more.  I don't suppose you think I've
any human instincts at all; but I have a few, and I see the way to
arouse more.  You probably won't believe me, but I'll never kill
another innocent harmless thing; and I will never lie again so long as
I live."

He leaned his gun against the thorn tree, and dropped the remainder of
his hunter's outfit beside it on the ground.

"I don't seem a fit subject to `have dominion,'" he said.  "I'll leave
those thing for you; and thank you for what you have done for me."

There was a crash through the bushes, a leap over the fence, and Abram
and the Cardinal were alone.

The old man sat down suddenly on a fallen limb of the sycamore.  He was
almost dazed with astonishment.  He held up his shaking hands, and
watched them wonderingly, and then cupped one over each trembling knee
to steady himself.  He outlined his dry lips with the tip of his
tongue, and breathed in heavy gusts.  He glanced toward the thorn tree.

"Left his gun," he hoarsely whispered, "an' it's fine as a fiddle.
Lock, stock, an' barrel just a-shinin'.  An' all that heap o' leather
fixin's.  Must a-cost a lot o' money.  Said he wasn't fit to use 'em!
Lept the fence like a panther, an' cut dirt across the corn field.  An'
left me the gun!  Well! Well!  Well! Wonder what I said? I must a-been
almost FIERCE."

"See here! See here!" shrilled the Cardinal.

Abram looked him over carefully.  He was quivering with fear, but in no
way injured.

"My! but that was a close call, ol' fellow" said, Abram.  "Minute
later, an' our fun 'ud a-been over, an' the summer jest spoiled.
Wonder if you knew what it meant, an' if you'll be gun-shy after this.
Land knows, I hope so; for a few more such doses 'ull jest lay me up."

He gathered himself together at last, set the gun over the fence, and
climbing after it, caught Nancy, who had feasted to plethora on young
corn.  He fastened up the trace-chains, and climbing to her back, laid
the gun across his lap and rode to the barn.  He attended the mare with
particular solicitude, and bathed his face and hands in the water
trough to make himself a little more presentable to Maria.  He started
to the house, but had only gone a short way when he stopped, and after
standing in thought for a time, turned back to the barn and gave Nancy
another ear of corn.

"After all, it was all you, ol' girl," he said, patting her shoulder,
"I never on earth could a-made it on time afoot."

He was so tired he leaned for support against her, for the unusual
exertion and intense excitement were telling on him sorely, and as he
rested he confided to her: "I don't know as I ever in my life was so
riled, Nancy.  I'm afraid I was a little mite fierce."

He exhibited the gun, and told the story very soberly at supper time;
and Maria was so filled with solicitude for him and the bird, and so
indignant at the act of the hunter, that she never said a word about
Abram's torn clothing and the hours of patching that would ensue.  She
sat looking at the gun and thinking intently for a long time; and then
she said pityingly:

"I don't know jest what you could a-said 'at 'ud make a man go off an'
leave a gun like that.  Poor fellow!  I do hope, Abram, you didn't come
down on him too awful strong.  Maybe he lost his mother when he was
jest a little tyke, an' he hasn't had much teachin'."

Abram was completely worn out, and went early to bed.  Far in the night
Maria felt him fumbling around her face in an effort to learn if she
were covered; and as he drew the sheet over her shoulder he muttered in
worn and sleepy tones: "I'm afraid they's no use denyin' it, Maria, I
WAS JEST MORTAL FIERCE."

In the sumac the frightened little mother cardinal was pressing her
precious babies close against her breast; and all through the night she
kept calling to her mate, "Chook! Chook!" and was satisfied only when
an answering "Chip!" came.  As for the Cardinal, he had learned a new
lesson.  He had not been under fire before.  Never again would he trust
any one carrying a shining thing that belched fire and smoke.  He had
seen the hunter coming, and had raced home to defend his mate and
babies, thus making a brilliant mark of himself; and as he would not
have deserted them, only the arrival of the farmer had averted a
tragedy in the sumac.  He did not learn to use caution for himself; but
after that, if a gun came down the shining river, he sent a warning
"Chip!" to his mate, telling her to crouch low in her nest and keep
very quiet, and then, in broken waves of flight, and with chirp and
flutter, he exposed himself until he had lured danger from his beloved
ones.

When the babies grew large enough for their mother to leave them a
short time, she assisted in food hunting, and the Cardinal was not so
busy.  He then could find time frequently to mount to the top of the
dogwood, and cry to the world, "See here! See here!" for the cardinal
babies were splendid.  But his music was broken intermittent vocalizing
now, often uttered past a beakful of food, and interspersed with
spasmodic "chips" if danger threatened his mate and nestlings.

Despite all their care, it was not so very long until trouble came to
the sumac; and it was all because the first-born was plainly greedy;
much more so than either his little brother or his sister, and he was
one day ahead of them in strength.  He always pushed himself forward,
cried the loudest and longest, and so took the greater part of the food
carried to the nest; and one day, while he was still quite awkward and
uncertain, he climbed to the edge and reached so far that he fell.  He
rolled down the river bank, splash! into the water; and a hungry old
pickerel, sunning in the weeds, finished him at a snap.  He made a
morsel so fat, sweet, and juicy that the pickerel lingered close for a
week, waiting to see if there would be any more accidents.

The Cardinal, hunting grubs in the corn field, heard the frightened
cries of his mate, and dashed to the sumac in time to see the poor
little ball of brightly tinted feathers disappear in the water and to
hear the splash of the fish.  He called in helpless panic and fluttered
over the spot.  He watched and waited until there was no hope of the
nestling coming up, then he went to the sumac to try to comfort his
mate.  She could not be convinced that her young one was gone, and for
the remainder of the day filled the air with alarm cries and notes of
wailing.

The two that remained were surely the envy of Birdland.  The male baby
was a perfect copy of his big crimson father, only his little coat was
gray; but it was so highly tinged with red that it was brilliant, and
his beak and feet were really red; and how his crest did flare, and how
proud and important he felt, when he found he could raise and lower it
at will.  His sister was not nearly so bright as he, and she was almost
as greedy as the lost brother.  With his father's chivalry he allowed
her to crowd in and take the most of the seeds and berries, so that she
continually appeared as if she could swallow no more, yet she was
constantly calling for food.

She took the first flight, being so greedy she forgot to be afraid, and
actually flew to a neighbouring thorn tree to meet the Cardinal, coming
with food, before she realized what she had done.  For once gluttony
had its proper reward.  She not only missed the bite, but she got her
little self mightily well scared.  With popping eyes and fear-flattened
crest, she clung to the thorn limb, shivering at the depths below; and
it was the greatest comfort when her brother plucked up courage and
came sailing across to her.  But, of course, she could not be expected
to admit that.  When she saw how easily he did it, she flared her
crest, turned her head indifferently, and inquired if he did not find
flying a very easy matter, once he mustered courage to try it; and she
made him very much ashamed indeed because he had allowed her to be the
first to leave the nest.  From the thorn tree they worked their way to
the dead sycamore; but there the lack of foliage made them so
conspicuous that their mother almost went into spasms from fright, and
she literally drove them back to the sumac.

The Cardinal was so inordinately proud, and made such a brave showing
of teaching them to fly, bathe, and all the other things necessary for
young birds to know, that it was a great mercy they escaped with their
lives.  He had mastered many lessons, but he never could be taught how
to be quiet and conceal himself.  With explosive "chips" flaming and
flashing, he met dangers that sent all the other birds beside the
shining river racing to cover.  Concealment he scorned; and repose he
never knew.

It was a summer full of rich experience for the Cardinal.  After these
first babies were raised and had flown, two more nests were built, and
two other broods flew around the sumac.  By fall the Cardinal was the
father of a small flock, and they were each one neat, trim, beautiful
river birds.

He had lived through spring with its perfumed air, pale flowers, and
burning heart hunger.  He had known summer in its golden mood, with
forests pungent with spicebush and sassafras; festooned with wild
grape, woodbine, and bittersweet; carpeted with velvet moss and starry
mandrake peeping from beneath green shades; the never-ending murmur of
the shining river; and the rich fulfilment of love's fruition.

Now it was fall, and all the promises of spring were accomplished.  The
woods were glorious in autumnal tints.  There were ripened red haws,
black haws, and wild grapes only waiting for severe frosts, nuts
rattling down, scurrying squirrels, and the rabbits' flash of gray and
brown.  The waysides were bright with the glory of goldenrod, and royal
with the purple of asters and ironwort.  There was the rustle of
falling leaves, the flitting of velvety butterflies, the whir of wings
trained southward, and the call of the king crow gathering his
followers.

Then to the Cardinal came the intuition that it was time to lead his
family to the orange orchard.  One day they flamed and rioted up and
down the shining river, raced over the corn field, and tilted on the
sumac.  The next, a black frost had stripped its antlered limbs.  Stark
and deserted it stood, a picture of loneliness.

O bird of wonderful plumage and human-like song! What a precious
thought of Divinity to create such beauty and music for our pleasure!
Brave songster of the flaming coat, too proud to hide your flashing
beauty, too fearless to be cautious of the many dangers that beset you,
from the top of the morning we greet you, and hail you King of
Birdland, at your imperious command: "See here! See here!"









End of Project Gutenberg's The Song of the Cardinal, by Gene Stratton-Porter