ale divine."

It is the opinion of some naturalists that birds never die what is
called a natural death, but come to their end by some murderous or
accidental means; yet I have found sparrows and vireos in the fields and
woods dead or dying, that bore no marks of violence; and I remember that
once in my childhood a redbird fell down in the yard exhausted, and was
brought in by the girl; its bright scarlet image is indelibly stamped
upon my recollection. It is not known that birds have any distempers
like the domestic fowls, but I saw a social sparrow one day quite
disabled by some curious malady that suggested a disease that sometimes
attacks poultry; one eye was nearly put out by a scrofulous-looking
sore, and on the last joint of one wing there was a large tumorous or
fungous growth that crippled the bird completely. On another occasion
I picked up one that appeared well, but could not keep its centre of
gravity when in flight, and so fell to the ground.

One reason why dead birds and animals are so rarely found is, that on
the approach of death their instinct prompts them to creep away in some
hole or under some cover, where they will be least liable to fall a prey
to their natural enemies. It is doubtful if any of the game-birds, like
the pigeon and grouse, ever die of old age, or the semi-game-birds, like
the bobolink, or the "century living" crow; but in what other form can
death overtake the hummingbird, or even the swift and the barn swallow?
Such are true birds of the air; they may be occasionally lost at sea
during their migrations, but, so far as I know, they are not preyed upon
by any other species.

The valley of the Hudson, I find, forms a great natural highway for the
birds, as do doubtless the Connecticut, the Susquehanna, the Delaware,
and all other large water-courses running north and south. The birds
love an easy way, and in the valleys of the rivers they find a road
already graded for them; and they abound more in such places throughout
the season than they do farther inland. The swarms of robins that come
to us in early spring are a delight to behold. In one of his poems
Emerson speaks of

"April's bird,
Blue-coated, flying before from tree to tree;"

but April's bird with me is the robin, brisk, vociferous, musical,
dotting every field, and larking it in every grove; he is as easily atop
at this season as the bobolink is a month or two later. The tints