Chapter 16

_ON HEARING THE CUCKOO AT MIDNIGHT, MAY 1st. 1822._

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)

'Twas the blush of the spring, vegetation was young, And the birds with a maddening ecstasy sung To welcome a season so lovely and gay-- But a scene the most sweet was the close of May-day. For the air was serene, and the moon was out bright, And Philomel boldly exerted her might In her swellings and trillings, to rival the sound Of the distant defiance of nightingales round. While the cuckoo as proudly was heard to prolong, Though daylight was over, her own mellow song, And appeared to exult; and at intervals, too, The owl in the distance joined in with "Too-whoo!" Unceasing, unwearied, each, proud of his power, Continued the contest from hour to hour; The nightingale vaunting--the owl in reply-- With the cuckoo's response--till the moon from the sky Was hastening down to the west, and the dawn Was spreading the east; and the owl in the morn Sat silently winking his eyes at the sight; And the nightingale also had bidden "good-night." The cuckoo, left solus, continued with glee, His notes of defeat from his favourite tree; At length he departed; but still as he flew, Was heard his last notes of defiance, "Cuckoo!"

THE END.

_London: R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers_

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NOTES:

[1] This part of the letter is very difficult of translation, as the plain word, in spiders' language, means merely "a deep one."--R. B.

[2] Cowper, that excellent man and poet, and close observer of nature, writes as follows to his friend, on the 11th of March, 1792:--

"_TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ._

"You talk of primroses that you pulled on Candlemas Day, but what think you of me, who heard a nightingale on New Year's Day? Perhaps I am the only man in England who can boast of such good fortune. Good indeed! for if was at all an omen, it could not be an unfavourable one. The winter, however, is now making himself amends, and seems the more peevish for having been encroached on at so undue a season. Nothing less than a large slice out of the spring will satisfy him."

He adds the following lines on the occasion:--

"_TO THE NIGHTINGALE, WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792._

"Whence is it that amazed I hear From yonder wither'd spray, This foremost morn of all the year, The melody of May?

"And why, since thousands would be proud Of such a favour shown, Am I selected from the crowd, To witness it alone?

"Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, For that I also long Have practised in the groves like thee, Though not like thee in song?

"Or, sing'st thou rather under force Of some divine command, Commissioned to presage a course Of happier days at hand?

"Thrice welcome then! for many a long And joyless year have I, As thou to-day, put forth my song Beneath a wintry sky.

"But thee no wintry skies can harm, Who only need'st to sing To make e'en January charm, And every season spring.

R.B."

[3] I once witnessed this silly and barbarous sport, and saw at least a score of maimed and wounded birds upon the barns, and stables, and outhouses of the village. I was utterly disgusted, and it required a strong effort of the mind to avoid wishing that one of the gunners at least had hobbled off the ground with a dangling leg, which might for one half-year have reminded him of the cowardly practice of "shooting from the trap."--R. B.

[4] The poor pigeon, I think, must here allude to the old well-known quarrel between the two families about building their nests. The magpie once undertook to teach the pigeon how to build a more substantial and commodious dwelling, and certainly it would have become the learner to have observed her progress, and not interrupt the teacher; but the pigeon kept on her usual cry, "Take two, Taffy, take two" (for thus it is translated in Suffolk), but Mag insisted this was wrong, and that one stick at a time was quite enough; still the pigeon kept on her cry, "Take two, take two," until the teacher in a violent passion gave up the undertaking, exclaiming, "I say that one at a time is plenty, and if you think otherwise, you may act about the work yourself, for I will have no more to do with it." Since that time the wood-pigeon has built a wretched nest, sure enough, so thin that you may frequently see her two eggs through it, and if not placed near the body of a tree, or on strong branches, it is often thrown down by the wind, or the eggs rolled out; yet the young of this bird, before they are half grown, will defend themselves against any intruder, at which time the parent bird will dash herself down amongst the standing corn or high grass, and behave as though her wings were broken, and she was utterly disabled; and this she does to draw off the enemy from her young; so that this bird is not so foolish as Mag would make us believe.--R. B.

[5] It is much to be wished that the above letter had contained some information on a very curious subject, for I would rather believe the swallow himself than many tales told of them. It has been said that, instead of flying to southern countries, where they can find food and a congenial climate, they dive into the waters of a bog, and lie in a torpid state, through the winter, round the roots of flags and weeds.--R. B.