Part 24

"No throat," says Toussenel, "can contend with that of the lark in richness and variety of song, compass and velvetiness of timbre, duration and range of sound, suppleness and indefatigability of the vocal chords. The lark sings for a whole hour without half a second's pause, rising vertically in the air to the height of a thousand yards, and stretching from side to side in the realm of clouds to gain a yet loftier elevation, without losing one of its notes in this immense flight.

"What nightingale could do as much?"

This hymn of light is a benefit bestowed on the world, and you will meet with it in every country which the sun illuminates. There are as many different species of larks as there are different countries: wood-larks, field-larks, larks of the thickets, of the marshes, the larks of the Crau de Provence, larks of the chalky soil of Champagne, larks of the northern lands in both hemispheres; you will find them, moreover, in the salt steppes, in the plains of Tartary withered by the north wind. Preserving reclamation of kindly nature; tender consolations of the love of God!

But autumn has arrived. While the lark gathers behind the plough the harvest of insects, the guests of the northern countries come to visit us: the thrush, punctual to our vintage-time; and, haughty under his crown, the wren, the imperceptible "King of the North." From Norway, at the season of fogs, he comes, and, under a gigantic fir-tree, the little magician sings his mysterious song, until the extreme cold constrains him to descend, to mingle, and make himself popular among the little troglodytes which dwell with us, and charm our cottages by their limpid notes.

The season grows rough; all the birds draw nearer man. The honest bullfinches, fond and faithful couples, come, with a short melancholy chirp, to solicit help. The winter-warbler also quits his bushes; timid as he is, he grows sufficiently bold towards evening to raise outside our doors his trembling voice with its monotonous, plaintive accents.

"When, in the first mists of October, shortly before winter, the poor proletarian seeks in the forest his pitiful provision of dead wood, a small bird approaches him, attracted by the noise of his axe; he hovers around him, and taxes his wits to amuse him by singing in a very low voice his softest lays. It is the robin redbreast, which a charitable fairy has despatched to tell the solitary labourer that there is still some one in nature interested in him.

"When the woodcutter has collected the brands of the preceding day, reduced to cinders; when the chips and the dry branches crackle in the flames, the robin hastens singing to enjoy his share of the warmth, and to participate in the woodcutter's happiness.

"When Nature retires to slumber, and folds herself in her mantle of snow; when one hears no other voices than those of the birds of the North, which define in the air their rapid triangles, or that of the north wind, which roars and engulfs itself in the thatched roof of the cottages, a tiny flute-like song, modulated in softest notes, protests still, in the name of creative work, against the universal weakness, lamentation, and lethargy."

Open your windows, for pity's sake, and give him a few crumbs, a handful of grain. If he sees friendly faces, he will enter the room; he is not insensible to warmth; cheered by this brief breath of summer, the poor little one returns much stronger into the winter.

Toussenel is justly indignant that no poet has sung of the robin. But the bird himself is his own bard; and if one could transcribe his little song, it would express completely the humble poesy of his life. The one which I have by my side, and which flies about my study, for lack of listeners of his own species, perches before the glass, and, without disturbing me, in a whispering voice utters his thoughts to the ideal robin which he fancies he sees before him. And here is their meaning, so far as a woman's hand has succeeded in preserving it:--

"Je suis le compagnon Du pauvre bûcheron.

"Je le suis en automne, Au vent des premiers froids, Et c'est moi qui lui donne Le dernier chant des bois.

"Il est triste, et je chante Sous mon deuil mêlé d'or. Dans la brume pesante Je vois l'azur encor.

"Que ce chant te relève Et te garde l'espoir! Qu'il te berce d'un rêve, Et te ramène au soir!

"Mais quand vient la gelée, Je frappe à ton carreau. Il n'est plus de feuillée, Prends pitié de l'oiseau!

"C'est ton ami d'automne Qui revient près de toi. Le ciel, tout m'abandonne-- Bûcheron, ouvre-moi!

"Qu'en ce temps de disette, Le petit voyageur, Régalé d'une miette, S'endorme à ta chaleur!

"Je suis le compagnon Du pauvre bûcheron."

Imitated:--

I am the companion Of the poor woodcutter.

I follow him in autumn, When the first chill breezes plain; And I it is who warble The woodlands' last sweet strain.

He is sad, and then I sing Under my gilded shroud, And I see the gleam of azure Glint through the gathering cloud.

Oh, may the song inspiring Revive Hope's flame again, And at even guide thee homeward By the magic of its strain!

But when the streams are frozen, I tap at thy window-pane-- Oh, on the bird take pity, Not a leaf, not a herb remain!

It is thy autumn comrade Who makes appeal to thee; By heaven, by all forsaken, Woodman, oh, pity me!

Yes, in these days of famine The little pilgrim keep; On dainty crumbs regale him, By the fireside let him sleep!

For I am the companion Of the poor woodcutter!

THE NEST.