Birds and Poets : with Other Papers. John Burroughs

The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.

       "Softly,—but this way fate was pointing,

       'T was coming fast to such anointing,

       When piped a tiny voice hard by,

       Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,

       Chick-chickadeedee! saucy note, Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said 'Good day, good sir! Fine afternoon, old passenger! Happy to meet you in these places, Where January brings few faces.' "This poet, though he lived apart, Moved by his hospitable heart, Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, To do the honors of his court, As fits a feathered lord of land; Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hands Hopped on the bough, then darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray. "Here was this atom in full breath, Hurling defiance at vast death; This scrap of valor just for play Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, As if to shame my weak behavior; I greeted loud my little savior, 'You pet! what dost here? and what for? In these woods, thy small Labrador, At this pinch, wee San Salvador! What fire burns in that little chest, So frolic, stout, and self-possest? Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine; Ashes and jet all hues outshine. Why are not diamonds black and gray, To ape thy dare-devil array? And I affirm, the spacious North Exists to draw thy virtue forth. I think no virtue goes with size; The reason of all cowardice Is, that men are overgrown, And, to be valiant, must come down To the titmouse dimension.' . . . . . . . . "I think old Caesar must have heard In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, And, echoed in some frosty wold, Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. And I will write our annals new And thank thee for a better clew. I, who dreamed not when I came here To find the antidote of fear, Now hear thee say in Roman key, Poean! Veni, vidi, vici."

      A late bird-poem, and a good one of its kind, is Celia Thaxter's "Sandpiper," which recalls Bryant's "Water-Fowl" in its successful rendering of the spirit and atmosphere of the scene, and the distinctness with which the lone bird, flitting along the beach, is brought before the mind. It is a woman's or a feminine poem, as Bryant's is characteristically a man's.

      The sentiment or feeling awakened by any of the aquatic fowls is preëminently one of loneliness. The wood duck which your approach starts from the pond or the marsh, the loon neighing down out of the April sky, the wild goose, the curlew, the stork, the bittern, the sandpiper, awaken quite a different train of emotions from those awakened by the land-birds. They all have clinging to them some reminiscence and suggestion of the sea. Their cries echo its wildness and desolation; their wings are the shape of its billows.

      Of the sandpipers there are many varieties, found upon the coast and penetrating inland along the rivers and water-courses, one of the most interesting of the family, commonly called the "tip-up," going up all the mountain brooks and breeding in the sand along their banks; but the characteristics are the same in all, and the eye detects little difference except in size.

      The walker on the beach sees it running or flitting before him, following up the breakers and picking up the aquatic insects left on the sands; and the trout-fisher along the farthest inland stream likewise intrudes upon its privacy. Flitting along from stone to stone seeking its food, the hind part of its body "teetering" up and down, its soft gray color blending it with the pebbles and the rocks, or else skimming up or down the stream on its long, convex wings, uttering its shrill cry, the sandpiper is not a bird of the sea merely; and Mrs. Thaxter's poem is as much for the dweller inland as for the dweller upon the coast:—

      THE SANDPIPER

       Across the narrow beach we flit,

       One little sandpiper and I;

       And fast I gather, bit by bit,

       The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.

       The wild waves reach their hands for it,

       The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,

       As up and down the beach we flit,—

       One little sandpiper and I.

       Above our heads the sullen clouds

       Scud black and swift across the sky;

       Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds

       Stand out the white lighthouses high.

       Almost as far as eye can reach

       I see the close-reefed vessels fly,

       As fast we flit along the beach,—

       One little sandpiper and I.

       I watch him as he skims along,

       Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;

       He starts not at my fitful song,

       Or flash of fluttering drapery;

       He has no thought of any wrong;

       He scans me with a fearless eye.

       Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,

       The little sandpiper and I.

       Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night

       When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

       My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

       To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

       I do not fear for thee, though wroth

       The tempest rushes through the sky;

       For are we not God's children both,

       Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

      Others of our birds have been game for the poetic muse, but in most cases the poets have had some moral or pretty conceit to convey, and have not loved the bird first. Mr. Lathrop preaches a little in his pleasant poem, "The Sparrow," but he must some time have looked upon the bird with genuine emotion to have written the first two stanzas:—

      "Glimmers gay the leafless thicket

       Close beside my garden gate,

       Where, so light, from post to wicket,

       Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate:

       Who, with meekly folded wing,

       Comes to sun himself and sing.

       "It was there, perhaps, last year,

       That his little house he built;

       For he seems to perk and peer,

       And to twitter, too, and tilt

       The bare branches in between,

       With a fond, familiar mien."

      The bluebird has not been overlooked, and Halleek, Longfellow, and Mrs. Sigourney have written poems upon him, but from none of them does there fall that first note of his in early spring,—a note that may be called the violet of sound, and as welcome to the ear, heard above the cold, damp earth; as is its floral type to the eye a few weeks later Lowell's two lines come nearer the mark:—

      "The bluebird, shifting his light load of song

       From post to post along the cheerless fence."

      Or the first swallow that comes twittering up the southern valley, laughing a gleeful, childish laugh, and awakening such memories in the heart, who has put him in a poem? So the hummingbird, too, escapes through the finest meshes of rhyme.

      The most melodious of our songsters, the wood thrush and the hermit

      thrush,—birds whose strains, more than any others, express harmony

      and serenity,—have not yet, that I am aware, had reared to them their

      merited poetic monument, unless, indeed, Whitman has done this service

      for the hermit thrush in his "President Lincoln's Burial Hymn." Here

      the threnody is blent of three chords, the blossoming lilac, the evening

      star, and the hermit thrush, the latter playing the most prominent part

      throughout the composition. It is the exalting and spiritual utterance

      of