LATER HOURS.

MAY 25th.–Early this morning there was great agitation in the tree-tops waving near us. For an hour or more there was high tragedy hovering over the pines and maples. The birds, of course, are in the midst of their spring joys, and family cares, and they are more numerous than usual this year. The large pine overshadowing our cottage roof at the northward has several nests, and appears a favorite resort of the robins. Early in the morning a great hawk came sailing over the river, from the eastern hills, wheeling in airy circles above the pine. Indescribable agitation fell upon the robins; their anxious, hurried flight about their nests, coming and going, wheeling and watching, was painful to see; their cries of horror, of wrath, of indignation, as the tyrannical hawk drew nearer and nearer, and, at last, alighted on the pine, were truly distressing. Oh for a gun! Oh for a sportsman's hand, and a sportsman's eye to aim straight at this Gessler of the woods! But, alas, the female garrison could do nothing beyond playing the part of the sympathizing chorus in Greek tragedy, while Niobe was mourning over her slaughtered children. In a moment perhaps fifty robins and other small birds had gathered about the pine, utterly fearless for themselves, but full of sympathy for the afflicted households of their brethren, and mad with powerless rage against the hawk. Oh for a valiant king-bird to put the monster to flight by boldly dashing at his eyes, as king-birds often do! But alas! there was neither man nor king-bird near enough to avert the catastrophe. With the utmost coolness the hawk perched himself near a nest, and after helping himself to a young robin, utterly regardless of the turmoil and agony around him, sailed proudly away. Perhaps some fifteen minutes passed, and again the wicked wretch came sailing over the meadows, towards the pine. The same agitation or rather increasing agony among the robins followed–they appeared absolutely frantic with anxiety for their little ones, and wrath against the invader. But of course it was fruitless. The arrogance and impudence of the hawk were intolerable to behold. He picked out another nestling from the young brood, and again sailed away. Four or five times in the course of an hour he repeated the same performance, sailing grandly over the river, alighting on the pine, picking out a bird first from one nest then from another, and on each occasion flying away with the utmost composure, though a score of light skirmishers were fluttering in impotent rage about him. Alas for the bereaved mother birds, and their mates! Their sharp cries of grief were heard throughout the day; the agitation among the feathered tribe in our neighborhood continued more or less until evening.

May 29th.–The poor little robins are consoling themselves; they are building a new nest, and they have chosen a very singular position. They have determined to be safe from the wicked hawk this time–and they have come to us for protection. We had noticed them fluttering about the house quite frequently with a look of melancholy observation. This morning one was observed with a straw in its bill flying towards the front door–and now, this evening, the beginning of a nest is plainly seen, directly over the front door of the house, almost within reach. It is a spot sheltered indeed from the hawk. Even his sharp eyes cannot see it, for it is protected by the roof of the veranda. They have chosen a canny spot–between the antlers of a deer, which are nailed above the front door!

Some fifty years ago, there was an association of sportsmen in this county called the "Unadilla Hunt." They met at stated times during the sporting season, and hunted the last bears and deer found in Otsego County. Some forty years since these gentlemen very kindly sent the author of the "Deerslayer" half a dozen antlers from the very last deer shot by the "Hunt." The gift was received with great pleasure. One of the antlers was nailed up over the front door of Otsego Hall, within the house; another in the entrance tower without. They remained there until sad changes came, and the house passed into the hands of strangers. Soon after it was destroyed by fire, and when a little cottage was built with the bricks, and oaken woodwork of the dear old homestead, then in ruins, over the same oaken doors, in their new position at the cottage, were placed the antlers which had been first nailed there under circumstances so different. It is between these antlers, that the poor little persecuted robins have taken shelter. We have many fears, however, that the nest, though fairly begun, may never be finished. There is so much opening and shutting of that door, so much passing to and fro, that they must be frightened at times. If one could only make them understand how safe they are–how little they have to fear–how very much we are their friends, all will go well. But who can talk robin to them!

June 3d.–The robins are actually in full possession of their nest. They have shown wonderful persistence since they began to build: there has been much more movement than usual on the veranda; the lattice work near them has been cleaned; the vines have been tied up; and the painters have also been at work above and below them. There has been some one near them almost every hour in the day, working among the flower beds, or on the veranda, while men, women, and children have been passing to and fro. Poor little creatures! Some needless alarms they must have had, but doubtless they wisely decided that we meant them no real harm. I never yet saw a nest in a position so trusting, so confiding, and having known their previous troubles we feel doubly interested in them. One is reminded of the lines of George Herbert, who, one summer's day, dissatisfied with the little good he believed himself to be doing, wished himself a tree, for the sake of sheltering the birds:–

I read and sigh, and wish,
    I were a tree,
For sure then I should grow
To fruit or shade; at least,
Some bird would trust
Her household to me,
And I should be just.

June 23d.–Charming drive to Middlefield. Never was there a more lovely June than the present month–lawns, gardens, meadows, forest, all so richly luxuriant, so bright and flowery, so fragrant and so fresh.

The bee tribe are said to be more numerous than usual. The flowers are full of them. In passing a farm-house we saw one of the pollarded young saplings before the door blackened with a large swarm of honey-bees. A few of the little creatures flew into the carriage as we passed, but without alighting.

"A bee among the flowers in spring is one of the cheerfullest things that can be looked upon. Its life appears to be all enjoyment; so busy, and so pleased." Any one who has wandered about the fields during the summer months will assuredly agree with this opinion of Paley. The very hum of the bee, as it flies past us on its pleasant errand, in quest of some sweet flower, or returning with its dainty load, is one of the most cheery of the voices of summer. The movement of the little creature, also, is full of meaning, and attracts the eye as characteristic of its nature; it generally flies in lines more or less direct: we see here nothing of the idle, roaming, vagrant flight of the gaudy butterfly, and nothing of the hesitating, doubtful, over-cautious pause of the plodding ant. The instincts of the bee are all lively and vigorous: it seems conscious that wherever grass grows there some blossom will be found to reward its search, and it moves steadily onward until a head of clover, or perchance some prouder flower, offers the precious drop. And, alighting to gather its grateful harvest, how skillfully its work is carried on; other insects may show as much cleverness in attaining their end, but there are few indeed which accomplish their task so pleasantly. The wise little bee does no mischief; no violence marks her labors; the freshness of the flower remains unsullied by her passage; she leaves the gay petals and the green foliage alike uninjured. No plant suffers from her visits! There is nothing unsightly, nothing repelling in any of her measures; all is order, nicety, and harmony.

June 24th.–Evening drive to the point. Country and Lake lovely, as they must always be under a soft summer sunset. But the clouds were our especial delight. Noble masses brilliantly white rose to a great height just above Mt. Vision, seeming to rest on the forest, now luxuriantly green. Elsewhere the heavens were clear, and deeply blue. Gradually the silvery white of the clouds, so inexpressibly beautiful, so pure, so spiritual in character, changed to hues more brilliant, every shade of rose and crimson passing in turn over that Alpine world of vapor. It was wonderful to see all those evening glories hanging over the eastern hills! The coloring of the western sky was bright, but far less vivid. One might have believed this the hour of dawn, rather than the close of day. Frequently the same effect of high and brilliant coloring may be observed at sunset, through every degree of the eastern horizon, from north to south, and at times when the coloring westward is much more sober. I know too little of optics to account for this. I have even fancied that this effect of coloring was more frequent in our Valley than elsewhere, but the impression is probably produced by greater frequency of observation. This evening those noble fields of vapor, unearthly in their beauty, and imposing in their magnitude and elevation, continued varying in gorgeous coloring for more than an hour, while elsewhere the heavens were blue, or pearly with twilight gray.

There is no earthly object with which the human eye is familiar, so full of grandeur, of majesty, and at the same time of tender beauty, and delicate sweetness, as the clouds which float over our heads.

"O ye Clouds, bless ye the Lord, praise Him, and magnify Him for ever!"

June 26th.–The robins have successfully raised their little family; four eggs were laid, the mother bird sat patiently brooding over them, one large dark eye occasionally turned downward as we stood watching below. All has gone well with the nestlings. In due time four ugly little heads appeared, four voracious yellow bills were opened, and now all have taken flight, Robin, and Pecksey, and Flapsey, and Dicksey are gone! Among all the robins fluttering about the grounds, we cannot tell which are our own, but we may yet discover some partiality for the veranda, which may point them out.

A year later: May 14th.–Again a pair of robins have built their nest between the antlers, over the front door! No doubt, it is the same pair who built there last spring. They seem very much at home.

Two years later: June 1st.–Again a robin family have chosen our veranda for their summer home. Very possibly the same pair. But they have built in a corner of the trellis–not between the antlers.

Eighteen years later: May, 1886–We are charmed to find a new nest, built by robins, once more placed between the antlers, over the front door. What confiding creatures they are!

June 30th.–It would be passing strange indeed if the European Lark and Nightingale were to become members of our bird flock, on this side the Atlantic. But we are told that this is possible. A recent newspaper article mentions the fact that the Lark has been introduced into New Jersey, and the Nightingale into Virginia–with what success cannot yet be known.

The voices of those two noblest of the singing birds of the old world would indeed form a charming addition to our native choir. There is something peculiarly delightful and spirited in the Song of the Lark. "It is," says Mr. Mudie, "more joyous in the sun than almost any other creature: not a spring air can sport, not a breeze of morn can play, not an exhalation of freshness from opening bud or softening clod can ascend without its being proclaimed by this all-sufficient index of the progress of nature. She rises not like most birds which climb the air upon one slope, by a succession of leaps, with pauses between: it towers upward like a vapor borne lightly in the atmosphere, and yielding to the motion of the air, as vapors do. Its course is a spiral gradually enlarging. The accordance of the song with the mode of ascent and descent is also worthy of note. It gives a swelling song as it ascends, and a sinking one as it comes down. And even if it takes but one wheel, as the wheel always includes ascent and descent, it varies the pitch of the song. Every one in the least conversant with the structure of birds must be aware that, with these, the organs of intonation and modulation are inward, deriving little assistance from the tongue, and none, or next to none, from the mandibles of the bill. The windpipe is the musical organ, and it is often very curiously formed. Birds require that organ less for breathing than any other animals, because of the air-cells and breathing-tubes with which all parts of their bodies–even their bones–are furnished. But these different breathing-organs must act with less freedom when the bird is making the greatest efforts in motion, that is, when ascending or descending, and in proportion as these cease to act, the trachea is more required for the purpose of breathing. The skylark thus converts the atmosphere into a musical instrument of many stops, and so produces an exceedingly wild and varied song–a song which is perhaps not equal in power, or compass, in the single stave, to that of many warblers, but one which is more varied in the whole succession."

The lark is entirely a bird of the open country–the downs, and pastures, and meadows of Europe. The nightingale, on the contrary, is often heard during the months of May and June, in the gardens of cities, during the early morning and late evening hours. There is a discussion as to the character of the nightingale's song, some writers calling it cheerful, others plaintive. The celebrated English statesman, Charles Fox, was very critical on this point; here is a letter of his on the subject. He considered their song cheerful:–

DEAR GRAY,–In defence of my opinion about the nightingales, I find Chaucer–who of all poets seems to have been the fondest of the singing of birds–calls it a merry note. Though Theocritus mentions nightingales six or seven times, he never mentions their note as plaintive, or melancholy. It is true, he does not call it anywhere merry, as Chaucer does, but his mentioning it with the song of the blackbird, and as answering it, seems to imply that it was a cheerful note. Sophocles is against us; but he says "lamenting Itys," and the comparison of her to Electra is rather as to perseverance day and night than as to sorrow. At all events a tragic poet is not half as good authority on this question as Theocritus and Chaucer. I cannot light upon the passage in the Odyssey, where Penelope's restlessness is compared to the nightingale's, but I am sure it is only as to restlessness that he makes the comparison. If you will read the last twelve books of the Odyssey, you will certainly find it, and I am sure you will be paid for your hunt, whether you find it or not. The passage in Chaucer is in the "Flower and the Leaf." The one I particularly allude to in Theocritus is in his "Epigrams," I think in the Fourth. Dryden has transferred the word merry to the goldfinch, in the "Flower and Leaf"–in deference, may be, to the vulgar error. But pray read his description of the nightingale there; it is quite delightful. I am afraid I like these researches better than attending the House of Commons.

Yours affectionately, C. J. FOX.

Here are the passages referred to by Mr. Fox. The first is from Chaucer's "Flower and Leaf":–

"The nightingale with so merry a note
Answered him, that all the wood rong
So sodeinly, that as it were a sote,
I stood astonied, so was I with the song
Thorow ravished, that till late and long
I ne wist in what place I was; ne where;
And agen me thought she song love by mine ere."

Dryden's version follows:–

"A goldfinch there I saw with gaudy pride
Of painted plumes, that hopp'd from side to side
Still perching as she paused, and still she drew
The sweet from every flower, and suck'd the dew;
Suffic'd at length, she warbl'd in her throat,
And tuned her voice to many a merry note,
But indistinct, and neither sweet, nor clear.
Her short performance was no sooner tried,
When she, I thought, the nightingale replied:
So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung,
That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung;
And I so ravish'd with her heavenly note,
I stood entranc'd and had no room for thought;
But all o'erpower'd with an ecstacy of bliss,
Was in a pleasing dream of Paradise."

The passage from the Odyssey is given below:–

"As when the months are clad in flowery green
Sad Philomel, in bowery shades unseen,
To vernal airs attunes her varied strains
And Itylus sounds warbling o'er the plains;
Young Itylus, his parents' darling joy,
Whom chance misled the mother to destroy,
Now doom'd a wakeful bird to wail the beauteous boy,
So in nocturnal solitude forlorn
A sad variety of woes I mourn."

The voices of the lark and the nightingale may be heard in echoing accompaniment throughout the prolonged choir of European poets, from the early dawn of civilization to the present hour. There are few poems of any length, in either of the languages of Europe, in which some allusion to one or the other has not a place. The noblest poets of the earth were born companions to these birds; beneath skies saluted by the lark, among groves haunted by the nightingale. These little creatures sang with Homer and Sappho among the Isles of Greece, with Virgil and Horace on the plains of Italy; they cheered Dante in his life-long wandering exile, and Petrarch in his solitary hermitage. Conceive the joy with which Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Spenser listened, each in his day, among the daisied fields of England, to music untaught, instinctive, like their own! What pure delight, indeed, have these birds given to the heart of genius during thousands of springs and summers! How many generations have they charmed with their undying melodies! They would almost seem by their sweetness to have soothed the inexorable powers of Death and the Grave. Were an old Greek, or an ancient Roman to rise from the dust this summer's day–were he to awaken after ages of sleep, to walk his native soil again, scarce an object on which his eyes would fall would wear a familiar aspect, scarce a sound would strike his ear, but would vibrate there most strangely. Yet, with the dawn, rising from the plain of Marathon, or the Latin Hills, he would hear the same noble lark which sang in his boyhood; and with the moon, among the ilexes and olives shading the fallen temple, would be heard the same sweet nightingale which entranced his youth.