The American patriot. (Clinton, La.) 1854-1???, 1855-04-14

hold; yet still he poured forth, now and then,
a few paintive notes, between the frosty pip
ings Of the breeze, like CLEANS Of sunshine be-
tween wintry Clouds
Ihave consulted my books of ornithology in
vain, to find out the name of this kindly little
bird, who certainly deserves honor and favor
far beyond his modest pretensions. He comes
like the lowly violet, the most unpretending,
but welcomest Of flowers, breathing the sweet
promises Of the early year.
Another Of our feathered visiters, who fol-
lows close upon the steps of winter, is the
Pewit, or Peewee, or Phebe-bird, for he is
called by each Of these names from fancied
resemblance to the sound Of his monotonous
note. He is social little being, and seeks the
habitation of men. A pair of them have built
beneath my porch, and have reared several
broods there; for two years past, their nest
never being disturbed. They arrive early in
the spring, just when the crocus and snowdrop
begin to peep forth. Their first chirp spreads
gladness through the house. The "Ph@be-
birds have come!" is heard on all sides. They
are welcomed back like members Of the fami-
", and speculations are made upon where they
have been during their long absence. Their
arrival is the more cheering, as it is announced
by the old wcather-wise people of the country,
the sure sign that the severe frosts are at an
end, and that the gardener may resume his
labors with confidence.
hon Ton k1o ,s,.J
so POLITICALLY yet truly described by Wilson.
His appearance gladdens the whole landscape.
Hc socially approaches your habitation, and
takes up his residence in your vicinity.
The happiest bird Of our spring, however,
and one that rivals the European lark in my
estimation. is the Boblincoln. or Boblink. as he
is commonly called. He arrives at that choice
portion of our year, which, in this latitude,
answers to the description Of the month Of
May, so often given by the poets. With us it
begins about the middle of May, and lasts until
nearly the middle Of June. Earlier than this
winter is apt to return on its traces, and. to
blight the opening beauties of the year and
later than this begin the parching, andpanting,
and dissolving heats of summer. But in this
genial interval nature is in all her freshness
and fragrance. "The rains are over and gone,
the flowers appear upon the earth, the time Of
singing of birds is come, and the voice of the
turtle is heard in the land" The trees arc
now in their fullest foliage and brightest ver-
dure; the woods ore guy with the clustered
flowers Of the laurel; the air is perfumcd by
the sweet briar and the wild rose; the mea-
dows are enamelled with clover blossoms
while the young apple, the peach, and the
plum begin to SWELL and the cherry to glow
among the green leaves.
This is the chosen season of revelry of the
Boblink He comes amidst the pomp and fra
GRANGE of the season; his life seems all sensi-
bility and enjoyment all song and sunshine.
He is to be found in the soft bosoms of the
freshest and sweetest meadows, and is most in
song when the clover is IN blossom. He
perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on
some long Haunting weed, and, as he rises and
sinks with the breeze, pours fourth success
sion of rich twinkling notes, crowding one
upon another like the outpouring melody Of
the skylark, and possessing the same raptu-
rous character. Sometimes he pitches from
the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon
as he gets upon the wing, and futters tremu-
lously down to the earth, as if overcome with
ecstacy at his own music. Sometimes he is in
pursuit of his paramour, always in full song,
as if he would win her by his melody, and al
ways with the same appearance Of intoxication
and delight
Of all the birds of our groves and meadows,
the Boblink was the envy of my boyhood. He
crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and
sweetest season Of the year, when all nature
called to the fields, and the rural feelings
throbbed in every bosom; but when l, luck.
less urchin! was doomed to be mcwed up dur.
ing the lvclong day, in that purgatory Of boy.
hood, school-room, it seemed if the varlct
mockcd at me, as he flew by in full song, and
sought to taunt me with his happy lot. Oh
how envied him! No lessons, no task, nc
hateful school, nothing but holiday, frolic
green fields, and fine weather. Had l thcr
been more versed in poetry, might have ad
dressed him the words of Logan to the cue
koo:
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
| Thy sky is ever clear
Thou hast no sorrow in thy note,
| No winter in thy year.
Oh! could fly, I'd fly with thee;
We'd make on joyful wing,
Our annual visits round the globe
Companions Of the Spring!
Further observation and experience hav,
given me different idea of this little featherct