University of Virginia Library

THE BIRDS OF SPRING.

My quiet residence in the country, aloof from fashion, politics,
and the money market, leaves me rather at a loss for occupation,
and drives me occasionally to the study of nature, and other low
pursuits. Having few neighbors, also, on whom to keep a watch,
and exercise my habits of observation, I am fain to amuse myself
with prying into the domestic concerns and peculiarities of the
animals around me; and, during the present season, have derived
considerable entertainment from certain sociable little birds, almost
the only visitors we have, during this early part of the year.

Those who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible
of the delightful influences that accompany the earliest indications
of spring; and of these, none are more delightful than the first
notes of the birds. There is one modest little sad-colored bird,
much resembling a wren, which came about the house just on the
skirts of winter, when not a blade of grass was to be seen, and
when a few prematurely warm days had given a flattering foretaste
of soft weather. He sang early in the dawning, long before sunrise,
and late in the evening, just before the closing in of night,

his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true, he sang occasionally
throughout the day; but at these still hours, his song was more
remarked. He sat on a leafless tree, just before the window, and
warbled forth his notes, few and simple, but singularly sweet, with
something of a plaintive tone, that heightened their effect.

The first morning that he was heard, was a joyous one among
the young folks of my household. The long, death-like sleep of
winter was at an end; nature was once more awakening; they now
promised themselves the immediate appearance of buds and blossoms.
I was reminded of the tempest-tossed crew of Columbus,
when, after their long dubious voyage, the field birds came singing
round the ship, though still far at sea, rejoicing them with the belief
of the immediate proximity of land. A sharp return of winter
almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the hilarity of the
household; yet still he poured forth, now and then, a few plaintive
notes, between the frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshine
between wintry clouds.

I have consulted my book of ornithology in vain, to find out
the name of this kindly little bird, who certainly deserves honor
and favor far beyond his modest pretensions. He comes like the
lowly violet, the most unpretending, but welcomest of flowers,
breathing the sweet promise of the early year.

Another of our feathered visitors, who follow close upon the
steps of winter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or Phœbe-bird; for he
is called by each of these names, from a fancied resemblance to
the sound of his monotonous note. He is a sociable little being,
and seeks the habitation of man. A pair of them have built beneath
my porch, and have reared several broods there, for two
years past, their nest being never disturbed. They arrive early

in the spring, just when the crocus and the snow-drop begin to
peep forth. Their first chirp spreads gladness through the house.
“The Phœbe birds have come!” is heard on all sides; they are
welcomed back like members of the family; and speculations are
made upon where they have been, and what countries they have
seen, during their long absence. Their arrival is the more cheering,
as it is pronounced, by the old weather-wise people of the
country, the sure sign that the severe frosts are at an end, and
that the gardener may resume his labors with confidence.

About this time, too, arrives the blue-bird, so poetically yet
truly described by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole
landscape. You hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably
approaches your habitation, and takes up his residence in your
vicinity. But why should I attempt to describe him, when I have
Wilson's own graphic verses, to place him before the reader?

The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals
the European lark in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink,
as he is commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of
our year, which, in this latitude, answers to the description of the
month of May, so often given by the poets. With us, it begins
about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June.
Earlier than this, winter is apt to return on its traces, and to
blight the opening beauties of the year; and later than this, begin
the parching, and panting, and dissolving heats of summer. But
in this genial interval, nature is in all her freshness and fragrance:

“the rains are over and gone, the flowers appear upon the earth,
the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle
is heard in the land.” The trees are now in their fullest
foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the clustered
flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-brier
and the wild rose; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms;
while the young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to
swell, and the cherry to glow, among the green leaves.

This is the chosen season of revelry of the Boblink. He
comes amidst the pomp and fragrance of the season; his life
seems all sensibility and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He
is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshest and sweetest
meadows; and is most in song, when the clover is in blossom.
He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some long flaunting
weed, and as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a
succession of rich tinkling notes; crowding one upon another,
like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing the
same rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches from the summit
of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing,
and flutters tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with
ecstasy at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his
paramour; always in full song, as if he would win her by his
melody; and always with the same appearance of intoxication and
delight.

Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Boblink was
the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest
weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all nature
called to the fields, and the rural feeling throbbed in every bosom;
but when I, luckless urchin! was doomed to be mewed up, during

the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, a school-room. It
seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flew by in full
song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, how I
envied him! No lessons, no task, no hateful school; nothing but
holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then
more versed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the words
of Logan to the cuckoo:

Further observation and experience have given me a different
idea of this little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to
impart, for the benefit of my schoolboy readers, who may regard
him with the same unqualified envy and admiration which I once
indulged. I have shown him only as I saw him at first, in what
I may call the poetical part of his career, when he in a manner
devoted himself to elegant pursuits and enjoyments, and was a
bird of music, and song, and taste, and sensibility, and refinement.
While this lasted, he was sacred from injury; the very schoolboy
would not fling a stone at him, and the merest rustic would pause
to listen to his strain. But mark the difference. As the year
advances, as the clover blossoms disappear, and the spring fades

into summer, he gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits;
doffs his poetical suit of black, assumes a russet dusty garb, and
sinks to the gross enjoyments of common vulgar birds. His
notes no longer vibrate on the ear; he is stuffing himself with the
seeds of the tall weeds on which he lately swung and chanted so
melodiously. He has become a “bon vivant,” a “gourmand;”
with him now there is nothing like the “joys of the table.” In a
little while he grows tired of plain homely fare, and is off on a
gastronomical tour in quest of foreign luxuries. We next hear
of him with myriads of his kind, banqueting among the reeds of
the Delaware; and grown corpulent with good feeding. He has
changed his name in travelling. Boblincon no more—he is the
Reed-bird now, the much sought for titbit of Pennsylvania epicures;
the rival in unlucky fame of the ortolan! Wherever he
goes, pop! pop! pop! every rusty firelock in the country is blazing
away. He sees his companions falling by thousands around
him.

Does he take warning and reform?—Alas not he! Incorrigible
epicure! again he wings his flight. The rice swamps of
the south invite him. He gorges himself among them almost to
bursting; he can scarcely fly for corpulency. He has once more
changed his name, and is now the famous Rice-bird of the Carolinas.

Last stage of his career; behold him spitted with dozens of
his corpulent companions, and served up, a vaunted dish, on the
table of some Southern gastronome.

Such is the story of the Boblink; once spiritual, musical,
admired, the joy of the meadows, and the favorite bird of spring;
finally, a gross little sensualist who expiates his sensuality in the

larder. His story contains a moral, worthy the attention of all
little birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those refined
and intellectual pursuits, which raised him to so high a pitch of
popularity during the early part of his career; but to eschew
all tendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence, which brought
this mistaken little bird to an untimely end.

Which is all at present, from the well-wisher of little boys and
little birds,

Geoffrey Crayon.