I have crossed the seas, and hundreds of miles away from land I have seen you, in your forlorn flight, looking in vain for the way that might lead to a land where your poor little bodies and tired wings and tiny little feet could find rest. The storm and the winds had carried you away from the land where you were accustomed to rejoice and sing, and taken you above that ocean on which you looked with such dread, and which is always ready to engulf you. You were so tired that you had not even the strength to utter your cries. How then I pitied you, for I thought of the days and sleepless nights you had spent over the vast sea! how weary those little wings of yours were! how painful must have been each effort you made to support you in the air. How sad must have been your thoughts, for you could see nothing to guide you to that place you longed to reach!
I have seen you when the good ship was close at hand. How welcome its sight seemed to be to you, who had suffered so much from thirst, hunger, and starvation, fatigue and exhaustion! and, as I watched your coming, I could detect joy and fear; for how strange the vessel appeared to you, how strange its ropes, how strange its sails.
DEATH OF THE BIRDS.
When I have thought its masts and ropes would afford you rest, and seen you ready to reach them, you have dropped on the waves to rise no more. How you struggled before you came to this! You almost touched the water, when another effort would send you flying high above the sea; then again your flight became weaker; gradually you came down and made another frantic effort to escape by flight. At last you seemed not to know any longer what you were doing, and despite all your valiant struggles for life your doom came, and you dropped into the waves; and as the vessel sailed away I left you to your sad fate. At other times you fell on deck, for you were not strong enough to perch. Then how your bright little eyes became dim, for the touch of death was soon to close them, despite the care and the little water I would give you. How sweetly you looked as you laid still in the embrace of death! The storms of your life were over, your sorrows were ended, and your merry songs were to be heard no more in the groves you used to love. I know of nothing sweeter to look at than a dead little bird! and yet there is nothing which more pathetically touches my heart.
When the eagle, the hawk, and the falcon soar high in the sky, I know that they are your enemies. When the snake glides from branch to branch in search of your nest, to destroy your offspring, I know that pain will reach your heart. When you and your mate are flying above the earth, perchance a heartless sportsman appears, and with his gun brings one of you down. How I have seen you follow the unfortunate one in its downward flight! How painful to hear were your cries; how you tried to arrest the fall of the poor wounded one, and how touching was the scene as you soared and soared above the body of the little victim who had fallen on the ground. So plaintive were your cries that they ought to have disarmed the ruthless hand that separated you, so that he would say to himself—“I will nevermore kill a harmless little bird, for God has given them to us to cheer, to enliven the nature that surrounds us.” When night comes, and your mate does not return, how anxious and sad you seem to feel! Perhaps a cruel cat, or some wild animal has destroyed his life. How often I have heard you call for the missing one, and could detect despair in the tone of your voice!
When the young fall from the nest I have watched your anxiety, and when danger threatened them I have seen you brace up your courage; and how angry then you did look, with your little feathers all standing out as if you were ready for a fight! When the storms had tumbled down the little nest you had built with so much trouble, how distressed you seemed to be, and how industrious you were to build another one! So, little birdies, I found that, like man, you have your joys, your cares, your troubles, and your sorrows. The stormy billows of life are also for you. I love you the more for this. I wish I were a poet, so that my lyre could sing songs to you, and I might tell you a softer tale than that which the nightingale tells to us.
Dear little birds, I thank you for all the joys you have given me during my wanderings. Your songs and melodies have often cheered me when wearied and lonely. Your plumage I have admired, and often have I exclaimed—“Little birds, how beautiful you are!” I thank you for the many days I have passed pleasantly while watching you; for I love dearly to look at you, to study your habits, to see how nice and loving you are. Many times I have said to myself, when admiring you—“Little birdie, do come to me, so that I may kiss thee and feel thy little beak upon my lips.” O God, how kind to man thou art! for he is able to understand thy works. The wonders of thy creation he can admire, so that he may praise thee for thy goodness.
AFRICAN BIRDS.
And now I will speak to you of some little birds of which we knew nothing, of little birds that had no name, and wandered unknown to civilized man, till he who has written this book saw them and brought them here.
In a forest of Equatorial Africa, on the banks of the Ovenga River not far from Obindji Village, there was a plantation where birds came every day. There were many curious kind of birds there, and many I had never seen before. The time to see them was early in the morning, before the sun became so hot that they had to retire in the forest, or in the afternoon after the sun was hidden by the hills. But the morning was the best time. The natives had no name for many of these birds. Among the most curious ones were the fly-catchers, the stranger bee-eaters, the queer crimpers, and some very strange woodpeckers; while flying over them all were some nice little black swallows that were very pretty indeed. I remember how much I loved in the morning to go over that plantation and watch them all, so that I might learn their habits and tell you something about them.