consolate as any human lover, when he discovers that the
maid who has coquetted with him for a season belongs to another man.

The Cardinal flew to the very top of the highest sycamore and looked
across country toward the Limberlost. Should he go there seeking a
swamp mate among his kindred? It was not an endurable thought. To be
sure, matters were becoming serious. No bird beside the shining river
had plumed, paraded, or made more music than he. Was it all to be
wasted? By this time he confidently had expected results. Only that
morning he had swelled with pride as he heard Mrs. Jay tell her
quarrelsome husband that she wished she could exchange him for the
Cardinal. Did not the gentle dove pause by the sumac, when she left
brooding to take her morning dip in the dust, and gaze at him with
unconcealed admiration? No doubt she devoutly wished her plain pudgy
husband wore a scarlet coat. But it is praise from one's own sex that
is praise indeed, and only an hour ago the lark had reported that from
his lookout above cloud he saw no other singer anywhere so splendid as
the Cardinal of the sumac. Because of these things he held fast to his
conviction that he was a prince indeed; and he decided to remain in his
chosen location and with his physical and vocal attractions compel the
finest little cardinal in the fields to seek him.

He planned it all very carefully: how she would hear his splendid music
and come to take a peep at him; how she would be captivated by his size
and beauty; how she would come timidly, but come, of course, for his
approval; how he would condescend to accept her if she pleased him in
all particulars; how she would be devoted to him; and how she would
approve his choice of a home, for the sumac was in a lovely spot for
scenery, as well as nest-building.

For several days he had boasted, he had bantered, he had challenged, he
had on this last day almost condescended to coaxing, but not one little
bright-eyed cardinal female had come to offer herself.

The performance of a brown thrush drove him wild with envy. The thrush
came gliding up the river bank, a rusty-coated, sneaking thing of the
underbrush, and taking possession of a thorn bush just opposite the
sumac, he sang for an hour in the open. There was no way to improve
that music. It was woven fresh from the warp and woof of his fancy.
It was a song so filled with the joy and gladness of spring, notes so
thrilled with love's pleadi