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 silkenfringe 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" target="_blank" title="ad.经常地；不断地">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

rasping scream of the blue heron, as he strikes terror to the
hearts of frogdom; while the occasional cries of a lost loon,

strayed from its flock in northern migration, fill the swamp with
sounds of wailing.

Flashing through the tree-tops of the Limberlost there are birds
whose colour is more brilliant than that of the gaudiest flower

lifting its face to light and air. The lilies of the mire are
not so white as the white herons that fish among them. The

ripest spray of goldenrod is not so highly coloured as the
burnished gold on the breast of the oriole that rocks on it. The

jays are bluer than the calamus bed they wrangle above with
throaty chatter. The finches are a finer purple than the

ironwort. For every clump of foxfire flaming in the Limberlost,
there is a cardinal glowing redder on a bush above it. These may

not be more numerous than other birds, but their brilliant
colouring and the fearlessdisposition make them seem so.

The Cardinal was hatched in a thicket of sweetbrier and
blackberry. His father was a tough old widower of many

experiences and variabletemper. He was the biggest, most
aggressive redbird in the Limberlost, and easily reigned king of

his kind. Catbirds, king-birds, and shrikes gave him a wide
berth, and not even the ever-quarrelsome jays plucked up enough

courage to antagonize him. A few days after his latest
bereavement, he saw a fine, plump young female; and she so filled

his eye that he gave her no rest until she permitted his
caresses, and carried the first twig to the wild rose. She was

very proud to mate with the king of the Limberlost; and if deep
in her heart she felt transient fears of her lordly master, she

gave no sign, for she was a bird of goodlyproportion and fine
feather herself.

She chose her location with the eye of an artist, and the
judgment of a nest builder of more experience. It would be

difficult for snakes and squirrels to penetrate that briery
thicket. The white berry blossoms scarcely had ceased to attract

a swarm of insects before the sweets of the roses recalled them;
by the time they had faded, luscious big berries ripened within

reach and drew food hunters. She built with far more than
ordinary care. It was a beautiful nest, not nearly so carelessly

made as those of her kindred all through the swamp. There was a
distinct attempt at a cup shape, and it really was neatly lined

with dried blades of sweet marsh grass. But it was in the laying
of her first egg that the queen cardinal forever distinguished

herself. She was a fine healthy bird, full of love and happiness
over her first venture in nest-building, and she so far surpassed

herself on that occasion she had difficulty in convincing any one
that she was responsible for the result.

Indeed, she was compelled to lift beak and wing against her mate
in defense of this egg, for it was so unusually large that he

could not be persuaded short of force that some sneak of the
feathered tribe had not slipped in and deposited it in her

absence. The king felt sure there was something wrong with the
egg, and wanted to roll it from the nest; but the queen knew her

own, and stoutly battled for its protection. She further
increased their prospects by laying three others. After that the

king made up his mind that she was a most remarkable bird, and
went away pleasure-seeking; but the queen settled to brooding, a

picture of joyous faith and contentment.
Through all the long days, when the heat became intense, and the

king was none too thoughtful of her appetite or comfort, she
nestled those four eggs against her breast and patiently waited.

The big egg was her treasure. She gave it constant care. Many
times in a day she turned it; and always against her breast there