And when he won’t, he won’t—
And there’s an end on’t!
His only tent is the blue sky; his stage-setting a jungle of trees near a swamp; his stage a thick bough near the top of a tree; his curtain the leaves of a white birch, or willow, or butternut; his orchestra and curtain-raiser the wind, and his audience his wife sitting patiently on the eggs in her nest, and—you, if you belong to Nature’s elect and happen to be near the swamp at that moment and have the kind of eyes that really see and the kind of ears that really hear. Mrs. Chat can command the performance with one little bird sigh. You could not buy it with the wealth of the world. After the entertainment is over, Mr. Chat drives his wife from the nest and takes her place on the eggs while she flies out over the tree-tops for a little outing. Not many bird husbands are so considerate.
Once upon a time (you see the story is just beginning now) I happened to find myself in a pasture; not a tame, every-day, green pasture tacked on one end of a nice smooth farm—not at all! but a pasture on top of a high hill, with beautiful fields stretching out below it, and all pink and white with laurel. The cows, who, they say, do not care either for laurel or scenery, may not have liked this pasture, but I did. So when I had climbed the bars and seated myself on the top one to view the country, I saw at the far edge of the pasture, a jungle of trees, and I liked it still more, and determined to explore it. On the way I flushed a brown thrasher in a laurel bush, and he flew into the jungle. There seemed to be but one bird singing in all the neighborhood, and this song which was a peculiar one, lured me into the thicket. On I went very cautiously till the sound seemed to be directly overhead. I paused and listened and peered into the tree tops.
“Caw-caw!” cried the bird harshly.
“Nothing but an old crow,” said I in disgust.
I started to go, when from the same spot overhead came a loud, clear double note, and again I waited.
“Meow! meow!” remarked my new friend.
“How stupid of me!” said I. “I might have known it was Mr. Catbird.” But immediately there came a glorious trill—first over my head, then almost under my feet, then at my right hand, then at my left; though there was no flutter of wings or other sound in all the jungle. At last the fallen branch upon which I had been sitting gave way and I went into the swamp with a splash of mud. “Look out, look out!” came a sarcastic voice from the tree top.
“It is an escaped Poll-parrot,” said I, to reassure myself, but I took out my handkerchief and mopped my heated brow. The unknown then proceeded to bark like a dog, quack like a duck, and squeal like a pig, with occasionally a measure of song in between. At last in desperation I seized a young sapling near at hand and shook it with all my might, thinking to frighten him into showing himself.