only be a little more sure of their facts,
what a comfort it would be to those who love both poets and birds!

No bird in our country is more persistently misrepresented by our sweet
singers than the Carolina or wood dove--mourning dove, as he is
popularly called; and in this case they are not to be blamed, for prose
writers, even natural history writers, are quite as bad.

"His song consists," says one, "of four notes: the first seems to be
uttered with an inspiration of the breath, as if the afflicted creature
were just recovering its voice from the last convulsive sob of distress,
and followed by three long, deep, and mournful moanings, that no person
of sensibility can listen to without sympathy." "The solemn voice of
sorrow," another writer calls it. All this is mere sentimentality, pure
imagination; and if the writers could sit, as I have, under the tree
when the bird was singing, they would change their opinion, though they
would thereby lose a pretty and attractive sentiment for their verse. I
believe there is

"No beast or bird in earth or sky,
Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill,"

though it may not so express itself to our senses. Certainly the coo of
the dove is anything but sad when heard very near. It has a rich,
far-off sound, expressing deep serenity, and a happiness beyond words.

First in the morning, and last at night, all through June, came to me
the song of the dove. As early as four o'clock his notes began, and
then, if I got up to look out on the lawn, where I had spread breakfast
for him and other feathered friends, I would see him walking about with
dainty steps on his pretty red toes, looking the pink of propriety in
his Quaker garb, his satin vest smooth as if it had been ironed down,
and quite worthy his reputed character for meekness and gentleness.

But I wanted to see the dove far from the "madding crowd" of blackbirds,
blue jays, and red-heads, who, as well as himself, took corn for
breakfast, and I set out to look him up. At first the whole family
seemed to consist of the young, just flying about, sometimes accompanied
by their mother. Apparently the fathers of the race were all off in the
cooing business.

So early as the second of June I came upon my first pair of young doves,
two charming little creatures, sitting placidly side by side. Grave,
indeed, and very much grown-up looked these drab-coated little folk,
silent and motionless, returning my gaze with an innocent o