t of a little originality. Something like this seems
to be the philosophy of the indigo-bird; and he carries it out both in
dress and in song. As we have said already, it is usual for birds to
reserve the loudest and most taking parts of their music for the close,
though it may be doubted whether they have any intelligent purpose in so
doing. Indeed, the apprehension of a great general truth such as lies at
the basis of this well-nigh universal habit,--the truth, namely, that
everything depends upon the impression finally left on the hearer's
mind; that to end with some grand burst, or with some surprisingly lofty
note, is the only, or to speak cautiously, the principal, requisite to a
really great musical performance,--the intelligent grasp of such a truth
as this, I say, seems to me to lie beyond the measure of a bird's
capacity in the present stage of his development. Be this as it may,
however, it is noteworthy that the indigo-bird exactly reverses the
common plan. He begins at his loudest and sprightliest, and then runs
off into a _diminuendo_, which fades into silence almost imperceptibly.
The strain will never be renowned for its beauty; but it is unique, and,
further, is continued well into August. Moreover,--and this adds grace
to the most ordinary song,--it is often let fall while the bird is on
the wing.

This eccentric genius has taken possession of a certain hillside
pasture, which, in another way, belongs to me also. Year after year he
comes back and settles down upon it about the middle of May; and I have
often been amused to see his mate--who is not permitted to wear a single
blue feather--drop out of her nest in a barberry bush and go fluttering
off, both wings dragging helplessly through the grass. I should pity her
profoundly but that I am in no doubt her injuries will rapidly heal when
once I am out of sight. Besides, I like to imagine her beatitude, as,
five minutes afterward, she sits again upon the nest, with her heart's
treasures all safe underneath her. Many a time was a boy of my
acquaintance comforted in some ache or pain with the words, "Never mind!
't will feel better when it gets well;" and so, sure enough, it always
did. But what a wicked world this is, where nature teaches even a bird
to play the deceiver!

On the same hillside is always to be found the chewink,--a creature
whose dress and song are so unlike those of the rest of his tribe that
the irreverent amateur is tempted to believe