ng 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' hi