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And hark! The nightingale begins its song,—

"Most musical, most melancholy bird."

A melancholy bird? Oh, idle thought.

In nature there is nothing melancholy.

.... 'Tis the merry nightingale

That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates

With fast, thick warble his delicious notes.

Coleridge.

Some barbarous peoples possess a rude taste for the beautiful plumage of birds, decorating their bodies in feathers of softest and brightest tints. But we have record of few, if any, savage tribes the world over which delight in bird melody. True, the savage may seek his food by sound, or even song, but to feast the ear on music for music's sake—ah, this is reserved for culture.

An ear cultivated to melody is one of the soul's luxuries. Attuned to sweet and varied sound, it may become the guide to bird secrets never imparted to the eye.

Sitting in the close shrubbery of a home garden, or crouching moveless in a forest, one may catch whispers of bird language never imparted to human ears when the listener is moving about or talking with a comrade.

If one has accidentally or by patience discovered the evening resort of shy birds, let him precede the birds by half an hour. Sitting low among rocks or fallen trees, having the forethought to wear plainly colored clothes, and as moveless as the neighboring objects, one may be treated to such a feast of sounds as will both surprise and entertain him. The birds will come close, and even hop over one's coat sleeves and shoes, though so much as a full-fledged wink may dissipate the charm.

Just before bedtime there are whisperings, and salutes, and low-voiced conversations, and love notes, and "O's" and "Ah's" at sight of a belated insect, and lullaby ditties, and if one be possessed of a good deal of imagination, "evening prayers."

Birds that fly from their night-time perches in the thick shrubbery in the morning dusk with a whirr, and a scream, or emphatic call-note, in evening time just whisper or sing in half-articulate tones.

To be out in their haunts late in the day and very early in the dawn is to learn things about birds one never forgets. And if one chance to remain late at night, one may often hear some feathered person mumble, or talk, or scold, or complain, or sing a short melody, in his sleep. Some students of bird-lore suggest that all-night singers, like the mockers, and some thrushes, do "talk in their sleep," instead of from intent and choice. If one will watch a tame canary in its cage one may hear a very low, sweet warble from the bird while its head is tucked under its feathers. This act wakens the little creature, and it may be seen to finish its note while it looks about in the lamp-light in a half-bewildered way.

Take our domestic fowls! Go noiselessly out to the chicken roost and stand stock-still for a while. Now and then some hen or cock will speak a few words in its own language, in a rambling, dozing way. Then the suggestion passes on, and perhaps half a dozen individuals engage in nocturnal conversation. One, more "nervous" from yesterday's overwork perhaps, actually has a nightmare, and cackles in fright. All this has no connection with the usual time for the head of the family to give his warning crow that midnight or daytime is close at hand and there is scarcely time for another wink of sleep.

Once in the secret of bird notes, even a blind person may locate the immediate vicinity of a nest. And he may identify species by the call-notes and songs. We have a blind girl neighbor who declares she would rather have her hearing than her sight, she has learned so well to hear what her sight might deprive her of.

When once the ear has learned its better lessons, glimpses, so to speak, of bird life flutter to it as naturally as leaves flutter to the sward in autumn. It is the continual chatter, chatter, that deprives many of us of the best enjoyments of life. We talk when we should listen. Nature speaks low more often than she shouts. A taciturn child or person finds out things that are worth the habit of keeping still to know.

These remarks are in the interest of singing birds. A bird is sometimes interrupted, and comes to a sudden stop. A footstep, a word, a laugh, and the very next note is swallowed by the singer. By studying our songsters one may come to know for one's self how individuals differ even among the same species.

There is the sad-voiced phœbe! Even she forgets her customary dismal cry at certain times when flies are winging their midday dance on invisible floors that never were waxed. It is when she takes a "flat stand" an the roof-corner and "bewails her lot" that her notes are utterly disconsolate. Take a couple of phœbes on a cloudy day, just after "one's folks have gone away from home on a long visit," and nothing lends an aid to sorrow like their melancholy notes. Really we do believe phœbe thinks he is singing. But he has mistaken his calling. Some of the goldfinches have a plaintive note, especially while nesting, which appeals to the gloomy side of the listener, if he chance to have such a side. Were Coleridge listening to either of these, the phœbe or the goldfinch, he would doubtless say, in answer to the charge of sadness:

"A melancholy bird? Oh, idle thought!

In nature there is nothing melancholy."

And he would have us believe the birds are "merry" when they sing.

And so they shall be merry. Even the mourning dove shall make us glad. She does not intend to mourn; the appearance of sadness being only the cadence of her natural voice. She has not learned the art of modulation; though the bluebird and the robin and all the thrushes call her attention to the matter every year.

If one will closely watch a singer, unbeknown to him, when he is in the very act, one may note the varying expression of the body, from the tip of his beak to the tip of his tail. Sometimes he will stand still with closely fitting plumage and whole attitude on tiptoe. Sometimes he will crouch, and lift the plumage, and gyrate gracefully, or flutter, or soar off at random on quick wings.

Sometimes he sings flat on the breast like a song-sparrow, or again high up in the sky like the lark. However he sings, heaven bless the singer! "The earth would be a cheerless place were there no more of these."

But legend tells the story of singing birds in its own way—the story of a time long, long eons ago, when not a single bird made glad the heart of anything or anybody.

True, there were some large sea birds and great walking land birds, too deformed for any one to recognize as birds in these days, but there was no such thing as a singing bird.

One day there came a great spring freshet, the greatest freshet ever dreamed of, and all the land animals sought shelter in the trees and high mountains. But the water came up to the peaks and over the treetops, and sorrow was in all the world. Suddenly a giraffe, stretching its long neck in all directions, espied a big boat roofed over like a house. The giraffe made signs to the elephant, and the elephant gave the signal, as elephants to this day do give signals that are heard for many a mile, so they say! Then there came a scurrying for the big boat. A few of all the animals got on board, by hook or crook, and the rain was coming down in sheets. All at once along came the lizards, crawling up the sides of the boat and hunting for cracks and knot-holes to crawl into, just as lizards are in the habit of doing on the sly to this day. But not a crack or knot-hole could they find in the boat's side; for the loose places, wide enough for a lizard to flatten himself into, had all been filled up with gum, or something.

Then the lizards began to hiss, exactly the way they hiss to this day when they are frightened; and the big animals inside the boat poked out their noses to see what was to pay.

"Oh, they are nothing but lizards!" exclaimed the giraffe to the elephant, who had naturally taken possession of more than his share of the only foothold in existence. "Let them drown in the freshet."

But a big, awkward land bird, with teeth, and a tail like a church steeple, took pity on the lizards and gnawed a hole in the wall of the boat.

Of course in trooped the lizards. Once in, they disposed themselves in nooks and corners, and right under the flapping ears of the elephant and between the pointed ears of the giraffe. And they began to whisper.

It was a very low, hissing whisper, as if they had never gotten farther than the s's in the alphabet, but the big animals understood.

Plenty of room was made for the lizards, and they were allowed to make a square meal now and then on the flies that had come in at the boat's door, uninvited, plenty of them.

After a few days the spring freshet came to an end, and the giraffe opened the door of the boat-house and looked out. He made signs to the elephant, and the elephant gave the signal, and out walked all the animals on "dry ground," which, to tell the truth, was rather muddy.

When all the other creatures were out of the boat it came the lizard's turn. But the elephant and the giraffe bethought them of something, and turned back to the boat "You promised us! You promised us!" they cried, to the wriggling lizards that hadn't a single thing about them to make anybody desire their company in land or sea.

"So we did promise," they answered, hissing their words.

Then the lizards all turned facing each other in rows, and stuck out their long tongues just as lizards do to this day, and breathed on one another, and made a sizzling noise. Suddenly, from each side of their long tails appeared pin-feathers, which grew very fast, till the scales were all disappeared. And then little baby feathers appeared on their backs, and breasts, and fore legs, or arms, which overlapped each other like scales, and were beautiful and soft and many-tinted. Beaks grew in place of the wide mouths; only the hind legs were left as they were. But these, too, began to change! They grew long, and slim, and hard, but the nails remained as they were before, only stronger. Then the lizards were reptiles no longer, but beautiful birds. And with one accord they began to sing, each singing a different song from his neighbor, and making the clear air ring with melody.

And the giraffe made signs to the elephant, and the elephant signaled all the other animals to return. And so they returned. And they could hardly believe their eyes when the elephant told them these were the crawling lizards that had come into the boat-house the last thing. But he assured them they were the "very same." And then he told them how the lizards had promised him and the big giraffe that if they would be permitted to stay in the boat with the rest until the spring freshet was over, they would be "angels" ever afterward, and spend all their time, when they were not eating and sleeping, in making glad melody for all the animal world.

While the giraffe was speaking the birds lifted their wings, which an hour before were bare arms, and soared out and up into the blue sky, singing as they went.

And this was the origin of the singing birds. To explain how, to this day, there are plenty of lizards of all sizes and colors, the legend hints a sequel to the story. Not all of the lizards were able or even willing to go into the boat-house, being naturally shy, and the holes the big bird pecked in the walls were all too soon sealed up.

Almost drowned, the remaining lizards crept up on the backs of the great water dragons, the leviathan, and behemoth, which nobody knows anything about in our days, and so were saved.

Anyhow, we have them, on warm days sunning themselves on fence-rails and bare rocks, or scurrying under the stumps and stones. But they are always on good terms with the birds, for we have seen them basking in the sun together, and they eat the selfsame insects.

The lizards are no doubt discussing with the birds the approach of another spring freshet, when they, too, will bethink them of the boat-house, and so come by feathers and songs.

Harmless they are, as the birds, whom they resemble in many ways. We have taught some of them to drink milk and honey from a teaspoon, and to peck at insects in our fingers, to come at our call, and to lie in our hands. To some they are beautiful creatures; to others they are "nothing but lizards." Boys throw stones at them, and girls wish there were no lizards, they "are so ugly."

Oh, the pity of it! If these would but turn the creatures tenderly over, they would see beautiful colors on the under side, that sparkle and glisten like the breast of a brightly tinted bird. We are acquainted with one lizard as long as a mocking-bird, with a breast as silver-gray. And we love to think of the time (of course it is imagination, though they do say there is possibly some truth in it) when another spring freshet, or something, will turn the little reptile into the bird he resembles.