birds?"
They were creatures of
habitual repression, and the inner
glimpses they had taken of each other that day were surprises
they
scarcely knew how to meet. Abram said nothing, because he
could not. He slowly shook his head, and turned to the plow, his
eyes misty. Maria started toward the line fence, but she paused
repeatedly to listen; and it was no wonder, for all the redbirds
from miles down the river had gathered around the sumac to see if
there were a battle in birdland; but it was only the Cardinal,
turning somersaults in the air, and
screaming with bursting
exuberance: "Come here! Come here!"
Chapter 4
"So dear! So dear!" crooned the Cardinal
She had taken possession of the sumac. The
location was her
selection and he loudly applauded her choice. She placed the
first twig, and after examining it carefully, he spent the day
carrying her others just as much alike as possible. If she used
a dried grass blade, he carried grass blades until she began
dropping them on the ground. If she worked in a bit of wild
grape-vine bark, he peeled grape-vines until she would have no
more. It never occurred to him that he was the largest
cardinalin the woods, in those days, and he had forgotten that he wore a
red coat. She was not a
skilledarchitect. Her nest certainly
was a loose ramshackle affair; but she had built it, and had
allowed him to help her. It was hers; and he improvised a paean
in its praise. Every morning he perched on the edge of the nest
and gazed in songless wonder at each beautiful new egg; and
whenever she came to brood she sat as if entranced, eyeing her
treasures in an
ecstasy of proud possession.
Then she nestled them against her warm breast, and turned adoring
eyes toward the Cardinal. If he sang from the dogwood, she faced
that way. If he rocked on the wild grape-vine, she turned in her
nest. If he went to the corn field for grubs, she stood astride
her eggs and peered down, watching his every
movement with
unconcealed
anxiety. The Cardinal forgot to be vain of his
beauty; she
delighted in it every hour of the day. Shy and timid
beyond
belief she had been during her
courtship; but she made
reparation by being an incomparably
generous and
devoted mate.
And the Cardinal! He was astonished to find himself
capable of so
much and such
varied feeling. It was not enough that he brooded
while she went to bathe and exercise. The daintiest of every
morsel he found was carried to her. When she refused to swallow
another
particle, he perched on a twig close by the nest many
times in a day; and with sleek feathers and lowered crest, gazed
at her in silent
worshipful adoration.
Up and down the river bank he flamed and rioted. In the sumac he
uttered not the faintest "Chip!" that might attract attention.
He was so
anxious to be inconspicuous that he appeared only half
his real size. Always on leaving he gave her a tender little
peck and ran his beak the length of her wing--a characteristic
caress that he
delighted to
bestow on her.
If he felt that he was disturbing her too often, he perched on
the dogwood and sang for life, and love, and happiness. His
music was in a minor key now. The high, exultant, ringing notes
of
passion were mellowed and subdued. He was improvising cradle
songs and lullabies. He was telling her how he loved her, how he
would fight for her, how he was watching over her, how he would
signal if any danger were approaching, how proud he was of her,
what a perfect nest she had built, how beautiful he thought her
eggs, what
magnificent babies they would produce. Full of
tenderness, melting with love,
liquid with
sweetness, the
Cardinal sang to his patient little brooding mate: "So dear! So
dear!"
The farmer leaned on his corn-planter and listened to him
intently. "I swanny! If he hasn't changed his song again, an'
this time I'm blest if I can tell what he's saying!" Every time
the Cardinal lifted his voice, the clip of the corn-planter
ceased, and Abram hung on the notes and
studied them over.
One night he said to his wife: "Maria, have you been noticin' the