The Song of the Cardinal | Page 3

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The Song of the Cardinal by Gene Stratton-Porter

IN LOVING TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER
MARK STRATTON
"For him every work of God manifested a new and heretofore
unappreciated loveliness."
Chapter 1
"Good cheer! Good cheer!" exulted the Cardinal
He darted through the orange orchard searching for slugs for his
breakfast, and between whiles he rocked on the branches and rang over
his message of encouragement to men. The song of the Cardinal was
overflowing with joy, for this was his holiday, his playtime. The
southern world was filled with brilliant sunshine, gaudy flowers, an
abundance of fruit, myriads of insects, and never a thing to do except to
bathe, feast, and be happy. No wonder his song was a prophecy of good
cheer for the future, for happiness made up the whole of his past.
The Cardinal was only a yearling, yet his crest flared high, his beard

was crisp and black, and he was a very prodigy in size and colouring.
Fathers of his family that had accomplished many migrations appeared
small beside him, and coats that had been shed season after season
seemed dull compared with his. It was as if a pulsing heart of flame
passed by when he came winging through the orchard.
Last season the Cardinal had pipped his shell, away to the north, in that
paradise of the birds, the Limberlost. There thousands of acres of black
marsh-muck stretch under summers' sun and winters' snows. There are
darksome pools of murky water, bits of swale, and high morass. Giants
of the forest reach skyward, or, coated with velvet slime, lie decaying
in sun-flecked pools, while the underbrush is almost impenetrable.
The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild grape-vines
clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over
the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken fringe
in the play of the wind. The birds loll in the shade, peel bark, gather
dried curlers for nest material, and feast on the pungent fruit. They
chatter in swarms over the wild-cherry trees, and overload their crops
with red haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and mandrake. The
alders around the edge draw flocks in search of berries, and the marsh
grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters. The muck is alive
with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers, whose colours
and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.
Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the
bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the
honey-laden trumpets. The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees
is vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the
bee-birds feast to gluttony. The fetid odours of the swamp draw insects
in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit of them.
Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats. Snakes sun on the bushes.
The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they cross
the lagoons. Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs. Frogs take graceful
leaps from pool to pool. Everything native to that section of the
country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the
Limberlost; but above all the birds.

Dainty green warblers nest in its tree-tops, and red-eyed vireos choose
a location below. It is the home of bell-birds, finches, and thrushes.
There are flocks of blackbirds, grackles, and crows. Jays and catbirds
quarrel constantly, and marsh-wrens keep up never-ending chatter.
Orioles swing their pendent purses from the branches, and with the
tanagers picnic on mulberries and insects. In the evening, night-hawks
dart on silent wing; whippoorwills set up a plaintive cry that they
continue far into the night; and owls revel in moonlight and rich
hunting. At dawn, robins wake the echoes of each new day with the
admonition, "Cheer up! Cheer up!" and a little later big black vultures
go wheeling through cloudland or hang there, like frozen splashes,
searching the Limberlost and the surrounding country for food. The
boom of the bittern resounds all day, and above it the