“In one of his journeys he fell in with a young Ringdove, who at once won his heart, first attracted by her guileless beauty and then conquered by her sympathy. But being an honest bird, this new sentiment in his breast could not tempt him from the path of duty; on the contrary, it only stimulated him to greater exertion, and he winged his flight anew. ‘I will return,’ he said; ‘my true love will wait for me.’ So he left, and she waited till her patience was worn out by waiting, and then wedded another.
“After many days of fruitless search our Dove returned to seek his bride, and found her surrounded by the family of his rival. The blow was too much for him, it broke his heart and drove him mad.
“Perhaps the Ringdove might have waited his return, had not his rival poisoned the ear of his mistress by whispering strange rumours about infidelity. When her first love returned she was seized with remorse and despair. What could she do? Like a sensible Ringdove, she continued to be a good mother, redoubling her care for her little ones, and doing her duty towards her husband, while her sorrows were buried deep in her own breast. No one knew her secret, even her most intimate friends, looking on her snug home, said, ‘How happy she must be!’ The same remark is made of a great many who have never known what happiness is.
“As for the poor Turtle-dove, he was perfectly harmless in his insanity, betaking himself constantly to the top of a mountain, where he dreamed away his days. That for which he had sought in vain in the solid realities of earth, perchance he found in dreamland, where at times even the wise ones of the world would like to abide. But, alas! they too must awake and be recalled to the rude realities of life.
“After his death, beneath a heap of leaves was found a manuscript entitled ‘Memoirs of a Madman,’ ‘Happiness is made of Dreams.’ It was really a poem in prose, written straight from the heart, free from the fetters of rhyme.”
Some feathered wits may be disposed to smile at the poor Turtle-dove, his misfortunes and writings. All we need say to such gaily-disposed critics is, that they have none of the gentle attributes of our loving but weak Ringdove.
P.S.—Out of consideration for those who dislike anything obscure in a story, we may add that the Ringdove, having reared her brood, when she heard of the fate of her first love, died of a broken heart.
Practical-minded Sparrows, and other common members of the feathered tribe, may think that the story would have been better as a whole had the lovers wedded and lived happily together. All we can say to this, as faithful narrators, is, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
