The oriole's nest is the poetry of bird architecture, be it swung in an apple-tree or an elm or a maple, or under a leaf. Her slender beak is her needle, her shuttle her hands, her one means of livelihood. We may call her fabric a tangle if we will; to the eye of Mother Nature it is a texture surpassing human ingenuity, the art for making which has descended by instinct to all her family. It is as beautiful as seaweed, as intricate as the network of a foxglove leaf, and suggests the indefinite strands of a lace-work spider's cocoon. All homage to the oriole!
What a piece of good fortune it is that they
Come faithfully back to us every May;
No matter how far in the winter they roam,
They are sure to return to their summer home.
What money could buy such a suit as this?
What music can match that voice of his?
And who such a quaint little house could build,
To be with a beautiful family filled?
O happy winds that shall rock them soft,
In their swinging cradle hung high aloft;
O happy leaves that the nest shall screen.
And happy sunbeams that steal between.
Celia Thaxter.
[CHAPTER VII]
THE BIOGRAPHY OF A CANARY-BIRD
Sing away, aye, sing away.
Merry little bird,
Always gayest of the gay.
Though a woodland roundelay
You ne'er sung nor heard;
Though your life from youth to age
Passes in a narrow cage.