When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er,
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers that charmed us before
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow,
The bluebird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow;
Till forced by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
Wilson.
[CHAPTER XI]
THE TANAGER PEOPLE
"Magic bird, but rarely seen,
Phœnix in our forest green,
Plumed with fire, and quick as flame—
Phœnix, else thou hast no name."
It is a large tribe, of numerous species in America, but the scarlet tanager alone may well be termed the Red Man of the forest. Native of the New World, shy, a gypsy in his way, harmless to agriculture, a hunter by nature, fascinating to all eyes that light on him.
It is as if Nature had a surplus of red and black the day she painted him, and was determined to dip her brush in nothing else. This contrast of color has made him one of our most familiar birds. But, as with many another of striking hue, the scarlet tanager has an indifferent song. Among our flowers like the scarlet geraniums and hibiscus, we do not look for the fragrance that distinguishes the pale violet or wild rose. It is as if the bright tint of bird or blossom is sufficient of itself, and nature would not bestow all virtues upon one individual.
Still the musical qualities of this tanager are not to be despised. His few notes may be almost monotonous, but they are pensive, even tender when addressed to his dear companion, for whom his little breast holds warm affection. She, too, at nesting-time, utters the same pensive note, and the two may be noticed in the treetops, whispering to one another in low tones.