So I return to my vulture body, to my perch on the parapet, to breakfast on the dead and to my vulture consort.
(End of translation.)
I spent the next winter at law school, returning to the old farmhouse the middle of May.
The first time I went down to the springhouse, I saw a vividly-colored golden robin or hangnest restlessly flitting about the old elm trees and occasionally bursting into loud-noted song.
A few days later I heard and saw him again. He was not so restless, and his song was low-toned and had a rich and more pleasant refrain. His notes were of endless and individual variety.
When he ceased singing I heard an incessant warble of sweet, though feeble, notes and, looking above my head, saw the composer, his bride, dressed in olive and gold, weaving on the pendulous nest of moss and horse hair, near the tips of the overhanging limb. I then knew why his song had changed and understood the happy warble of the busy weaver.
They were so gaily colored, so happily situated, their home so far from harm, they were so exclusive, that I called the pair the little king and queen.
Bright pair of boundless wing and sweet song, did you first meet here? You did not come together. How did the king mark the way for his queen? Have you searched all the way from Panama, your winter home, for this old elm, to celebrate your bird marriage, pass your honeymoon and find much joy in nest-building and rearing a family? Do you know tears and night and nothingness? Or have you found and eaten of the fruit of the trees of life and eternal love?
In about three weeks all song ceased. They made incessant trips to the old orchard and returned with caterpillars to feed five cavernous yellow-throated mouths.