But the memory brought her only bitter grief,
And she watched her brood in broken-hearted sorrow,
As they looked with wondering eyes
At the strange panorama in birdland.
And all the blue-jays sat in silent condemnation
Of the unpardonable sin.
There was no mercy
To be found in all the land of birds
For either the forsaken mother
Or her little brood.
The deserted wife and widowed mother blue-jay
Suddenly threw her wings
Over the astonished little children,
As though to wipe the stain of sin
From their innocent lives,
And as she did so,
The crested cardinal
With a fresh crimson bride flashed by,
And perched upon the old beech limb.
And there he sat
In undisturbed and cynical silence,
While all the court
Of high crimes and misdemeanors
Praised his sacerdotal coat and shining mitre.
The mother felt the birdlings stir beneath her wing,
And their scarlet stain suffuse her being.
She looked toward the thorn tree
But no word was spoken.
A wise old owl that moped and moaned
On the limb of a sycamore tree
That overhung the little stream
Suddenly lifted his voice and cried:
"Let him who is without stain of sin,
Lift the first note of song
Against the little blue-jay."
But all the woods were still.
Only the thorn tree swayed slightly in the breeze,
And then a flute-like note floated out
Upon the wondering air:
"Oh! my little blue-jay, my little bluebell,
I would I could come to thee;
I would find all the food for thy sin-stained brood,
And thy bridegroom I should be.
That villainous fop on the old beech limb
And the arrogant wife that sits by him
Have broken the heart of my little bluebell,
The little gazelle, the bird gazelle he loved so well,
And they laugh in their cynical glee.
Oh! I would heal thy deep chagrin,
Forgive thy blood-stained life its sin,
And thou shouldst be my beauteous bride,
Forever happy at my side.
My hope, my joy, my love, my pride,
If I could only come to thee,
If I could only come to thee."
Again the air was silent as the tomb.
The little mother bird
Moved with her frightened children
Toward the old thorn tree.
And when she at last stood
Beneath the sword
Upon which her faithful lover was pinioned
Behold the miracle that was enacted
Before her wondering eyes.
The crimson dyes
That streaked the birdlings' wings and breasts
Turned suddenly to a dull and dark maroon,
And not a jay in all birdland
But would swear that her little children
Now resembled in every line and stain
The dead body of her valiant lover
Who had shed his blood
To save his little bluebell from betrayal.
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Minor punctuation errors have been corrected without comment.
2. Spelling corrections:
p. 60, "syncophantic" to "sycophantic" (A thousand sycophantic, fawning lords;)
p. 96, "shubbery" to "shrubbery" (O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali)