













The Song of the Cardinal


by

Gene Stratton-Porter




IN LOVING TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER

MARK STRATTON


"For him every work of God manifested a new and heretofore
unappreciated loveliness."



CONTENTS

  1.  "Good cheer! Good cheer!" exulted the Cardinal
  2.  "Wet year! Wet year!" prophesied the Cardinal
  3.  "Come here! Come here!" entreated the Cardinal
  4.  "So dear! So dear!" crooned the Cardinal
  5.  "See here! See here!" demanded the Cardinal



Chapter 1

"Good cheer! Good cheer!" exulted the Cardinal


He darted through the orange orchard searching for slugs for his
breakfast, and between whiles he rocked on the branches and rang over
his message of encouragement to men.  The song of the Cardinal was
overflowing with joy, for this was his holiday, his playtime.  The
southern world was filled with brilliant sunshine, gaudy flowers, an
abundance of fruit, myriads of insects, and never a thing to do except
to bathe, feast, and be happy.  No wonder his song was a prophecy of
good cheer for the future, for happiness made up the whole of his past.

The Cardinal was only a yearling, yet his crest flared high, his beard
was crisp and black, and he was a very prodigy in size and colouring.
Fathers of his family that had accomplished many migrations appeared
small beside him, and coats that had been shed season after season
seemed dull compared with his.  It was as if a pulsing heart of flame
passed by when he came winging through the orchard.

Last season the Cardinal had pipped his shell, away to the north, in
that paradise of the birds, the Limberlost.  There thousands of acres
of black marsh-muck stretch under summers' sun and winters' snows.
There are darksome pools of murky water, bits of swale, and high
morass.  Giants of the forest reach skyward, or, coated with velvet
slime, lie decaying in sun-flecked pools, while the underbrush is
almost impenetrable.

The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds.  Wild grape-vines
clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over
the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken
fringe in the play of the wind.  The birds loll in the shade, peel
bark, gather dried curlers for nest material, and feast on the pungent
fruit.  They chatter in swarms over the wild-cherry trees, and overload
their crops with red haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and
mandrake.  The alders around the edge draw flocks in search of berries,
and the marsh grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters.  The
muck is alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers,
whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.

Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the
bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the
honey-laden trumpets.  The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees is
vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the
bee-birds feast to gluttony.  The fetid odours of the swamp draw
insects in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit
of them.

Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats.  Snakes sun on the bushes.
The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they
cross the lagoons.  Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs.  Frogs take
graceful leaps from pool to pool.  Everything native to that section of
the country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the
Lim