The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1896-02-01
THE BIRD OF OPTIMISM.
BY MAURICE THOMPSON.

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pendicular face of great cliff overlook
ing the widest and strangest place that
1 ever saw. 1t would be literary peril
to undertake description of rainfall or
landscape; cloudburst flung down enor-
nous bodies of water spanking the hill
sides and deluging the hollows; and a
believing noise filed all space. I looked
out from my shelter to see only verti-
cal sheet of wind tortured water. Verti-
cal, say, but this is no nearer truth
than to call horizontal; it was a mass
against which my vision fattened and
was blurred.
At least ten miles lay between me and
the cabin where l had taken up my
abode for short time. and now the day
was nearly sped. 1 knew that should
have to spend the night in the cliff un-
less the rain did better than could be
expected. By chance, moreover, the pros
pect showed me feature which, accord
ing to recent newspaper item, ought to
have delighted me; for, few feet left
ward and above me, l saw huge rattle
snake slowly drag himself into assure.
Now, all reports and press items to the
contrary Notwithstanding. snake is the
only being ever saw that l am afraid
Of. A pet rattlesnake, indeed Give me
an open tub Of prussic acid in preference.
1t shriyels my back with cold chills TO
think of Crotalus, and if had the least
suspicion that any snake, even striped
garter, meant to enter my house, no bolt
or bar could hold me in. There was no
possible way of escape, however, while
that storm was at WORK. Lightning
struck again, left and right, the white,
hot bolts clipping the flood and crashing
horribly. One step into that rain would
have been plunge down upon inevita-
BILE destruction. 1t kept on until dark.
pounding and roaring and blazing. and
when at last lull slowly came, neither
moon nor star lit the awful clouds.
All night long l sat in the cleft and
heard the torrents rushing down the
slopes, while deep, throbbing voice
came up from the bottom of the pinched d
little valley, where a great new made
river was weltering and tossing its mud
dy foam. l had good weapons besiC g
me; but l was afraid; not of stray
panther, bear, or pack of wolves; let
them all come. 1t was that rattlesnake
whose hideously ornate skin-pattern
wrought upon my imagination, and l
would not for good deal miss this OPP
portunity to say that l was an arrant,
nervous coward until daylight showed
me how to crawl down the rock. A pet
rattlesnake? Gentlemen and ladies Ct
the press gang, 1 am not guilty.
But it is of the next morning that I
wish to say word or two. with special
note of how hooking bird sang above
the flood. / had to wait three hours for
torrent to subside before l could go to
my friends cabin. Meantime the clouds
we're blown off the sky by refreshing
breeze, and delightful influence fell
upon the rain washed landscape. Some
thorn trees and haw bushes overhung
the brawling water. On the highest
spray of one of these hooking bird
stood singing at the utmost reach of his
voice. Eastward, where notch in the
hills marked the valleys main outlet,
the sun fared through upon the wild
garden, and every leaf was futtering
with soft contribution to the general
tumult of joyous sounds.
There is always something new to dis
cover when wild hooking bird sings;
so found me damp seaton lime stone
fragment long ago hurled down from the
mountain top. The bird was scarcely
three rods distant from me and, as is
often its trick after storm, singing
recklessly and without apparent aim.
Every brisk wave of wind swung it far
and tossed it up and down. until it ap-
peared to be sporting upon the waves of
its own sparkling and turbulent music.
forgot that l had spent the night
sleeplessly in rattlesnake's den and that
l had had neither supper nor breakfast.
The weather and the birds song wove
their spell of optimism around me. Here
was no sad-voiced nightingale suggest
ing ages of sorrow and centuries of fail
ure. Our hooking bird is true Ameri-
can, and whether we will acknowledge
it or no, he is our national poet voicing
the vigor and the originality of our life.
His song is a declaration of independ-
ence; every phrase out of his beak is a
denial of the old order of things. He
should be building and singing in every
park and orchard of our land, if only
for the infectious energy and thrilling
happiness of his life.
That morning song of his in the lone
ly Alabama valley seemed then and
seems to me now the type of what
American poetry should be. Triumph
ant, bursting with gladness, pure in
tone, infinitely variegated. hopeful,
daring-a food Of music made up of
all that was ever good in the past,
that is refreshing in the present or raw
ishing in the oncoming future.
II sat there listening and dreaming
aud taking in courage what shall critics
say of a birds influence? Not note of
mine may ever echo any flute sweetness