t
or lovable than a squirrel or a fish; yet to me it seems that all the
excellences of the animal creation converge and centre in this nymph of
the air; a warbler seems to be the finishing stroke.

First, there is its light, delicate, aerial organization,--consequently,
its vivacity, its high temperature, the depth and rapidity of its
inspirations, and likewise the intense, gushing, lyrical character of
its life. How hot he is! how fast he lives!--as if his air had more
oxygen than ours, or his body less clay. How slight a wound kills him!
how exquisite his sensations! how perfect his nervous system! and hence
how large his brain! Why, look at the cerebral development of this tiny
songster,--almost a third larger, in proportion to the size of its body,
than that of Shakspeare even! Does it mean nothing? You may observe that
a warbler has a much larger brain and a much finer cerebral
organization throughout than a bird of prey, or any of the Picus family
even. Does it signify nothing? I gaze into the eyes of the
Gazelle,--eyes that will admit of no epithet or comparison,--and the old
question of preexistence and transmigration rises afresh in my mind, and
something like a dim recognition of kinship passes. I turn this Thrush
in my hand,--I remember its strange ways, the curious look it gave me,
its ineffable music, its freedom, and its ecstasy,--and I tremble lest I
have slain a being diviner than myself.

And then there is its freedom, its superior powers of locomotion, its
triumph over time and space. The reptile measures its length upon the
ground; the quadruped enjoys a more complete liberation, and is related
to the earth less closely; man more still; and the bird most of all.
Over our heads, where our eyes travel, but our bodies follow not,--in
the free native air,--is his home. The trees are his temples and his
dwellings, and the breezes sing his lullaby. He needs no sheltering; for
the rain does not wet him. He need fear no cold; for the tropics wait
upon his wings. He is the nearest visible representation of a spirit I
know of. He _flies_,--the superlative of locomotion; the poet in his
most audacious dreams dare confer no superior power on flesh and blood.
Sound and odor are no more native to the air than is the Swallow. Look
at this marvellous creature! He can reverse the order of the seasons,
and almost keep the morning or the sunset constantly in his eye, or
outstrip the west-wind cloud. Does he subsist upo