The Song of the Cardinal | Page 9

bird, "Spring o' year! Spring o' year!";
while stilt-legged little killdeers were scudding around the Limberlost
and beside the river, flinging from cloudland their "Kill deer! Kill
deer!" call. The robins in the orchards were pulling the long dried
blades of last year's grass from beneath the snow to line their
mud-walled cups; and the bluebirds were at the hollow apple tree. Flat
on the top rail, the doves were gathering their few coarse sticks and
twigs together. It was such a splendid place to set their cradle. The
weatherbeaten, rotting old rails were the very colour of the busy dove
mother. Her red-rimmed eye fitted into the background like a tiny
scarlet lichen cup. Surely no one would ever see her! The Limberlost
and shining river, the fields and forests, the wayside bushes and fences,
the stumps, logs, hollow trees, even the bare brown breast of Mother
Earth, were all waiting to cradle their own again; and by one of the
untold miracles each would return to its place.
There was intoxication in the air. The subtle, pungent, ravishing odours
on the wind, of unfolding leaves, ice-water washed plants, and catkin
pollen, were an elixir to humanity. The cattle of the field were fairly
drunk with it, and herds, dry-fed during the winter, were coming to
their first grazing with heads thrown high, romping, bellowing, and
racing like wild things.
The north wind, sweeping from icy fastnesses, caught this odour of
spring, and carried it to the orange orchards and Everglades; and at a
breath of it, crazed with excitement, the Cardinal went flaming through
the orchard, for with no one to teach him, he knew what it meant. The
call had come. Holidays were over.
It was time to go home, time to riot in crisp freshness, time to go
courting, time to make love, time to possess his own, time for mating
and nest-building. All that day he flashed around, nervous with dread
of the unknown, and palpitant with delightful expectation; but with the
coming of dusk he began his journey northward.

When he passed the Everglades, he winged his way slowly, and
repeatedly sent down a challenging "Chip," but there was no answer.
Then the Cardinal knew that the north wind had carried a true message,
for the king and his followers were ahead of him on their way to the
Limberlost. Mile after mile, a thing of pulsing fire, he breasted the
blue-black night, and it was not so very long until he could discern a
flickering patch of darkness sweeping the sky before him. The Cardinal
flew steadily in a straight sweep, until with a throb of triumph in his
heart, he arose in his course, and from far overhead, flung down a
boastful challenge to the king and his followers, as he sailed above
them and was lost from sight.
It was still dusky with the darkness of night when he crossed the
Limberlost, dropping low enough to see its branches laid bare, to catch
a gleam of green in its swelling buds, and to hear the wavering chorus
of its frogs. But there was no hesitation in his flight. Straight and sure
he winged his way toward the shining river; and it was only a few more
miles until the rolling waters of its springtime flood caught his eye.
Dropping precipitately, he plunged his burning beak into the loved
water; then he flew into a fine old stag sumac and tucked his head
under his wing for a short rest. He had made the long flight in one
unbroken sweep, and he was sleepy. In utter content he ruffled his
feathers and closed his eyes, for he was beside the shining river; and it
would be another season before the orange orchard would ring again
with his "Good Cheer! Good Cheer!"
Chapter 2
"Wet year! Wet year!" prophesied the Cardinal
The sumac seemed to fill his idea of a perfect location from the very
first. He perched on a limb, and between dressing his plumage and
pecking at last year's sour dried berries, he sent abroad his prediction.
Old Mother Nature verified his wisdom by sending a dashing shower,
but he cared not at all for a wetting. He knew how to turn his crimson
suit into the most perfect of water-proof coats; so he flattened his crest,
sleeked his feathers, and breasting the April downpour, kept on calling

for rain. He knew he would appear brighter when it was past, and he
seemed to know, too, that every day of sunshine and shower would
bring nearer his heart's desire.
He was a very Beau Brummel while he waited. From morning until
night he bathed, dressed his feathers, sunned himself, fluffed and flirted.
He strutted and "chipped" incessantly. He claimed that sumac for his