There was no room for a rival that morning. The Cardinal flew abreast of her and gave her a caress or attempted a kiss whenever he found the slightest chance. She was almost worn out, her flights were wavering and growing shorter. The Cardinal did his utmost. If she paused to rest, he crept close as he dared, and piteously begged: “Come here! Come here!”

  When she took wing, he so dexterously intercepted her course that several time she found refuge in his sumac without realizing where she was. When she did that, he perched just as closely as he dared; and while they both rested, he sang to her a soft little whispered love song, deep in his throat; and with every note he gently edged nearer. She turned her head from him, and although she was panting for breath and palpitant with fear, the Cardinal knew that he dared not go closer, or she would dash away like the wild thing she was. The next time she took wing, she found him so persistently in her course that she turned sharply and fled panting to the sumac. When this had happened so often that she seemed to recognize the sumac as a place of refuge, the Cardinal slipped aside and spent all his remaining breath in an exultant whistle of triumph, for now he was beginning to see his way. He dashed into mid-air, and with a gyration that would have done credit to a flycatcher, he snapped up a gadfly that should have been more alert.

  With a tender “Chip!” from branch to branch, slowly, cautiously, he came with it. Because he was half starved himself, he knew that she must be almost famished. Holding it where she could see, he hopped toward her, eagerly, carefully, the gadfly in his beak, his heart in his mouth. He stretched his neck and legs to the limit as he reached the fly toward her. What matter that she took it with a snap, and plunged a quarter of a mile before eating it? She had taken food from him! That was the beginning. Cautiously he impelled her toward the sumac, and with untiring patience kept her there the remainder of the day. He carried her every choice morsel he could find in the immediate vicinity of the sumac, and occasionally she took a bit from his beak, though oftenest he was compelled to lay it on a limb beside her. At dusk she repeatedly dashed toward the underbrush; but the Cardinal, with endless patience and tenderness, maneuvered her to the sumac, until she gave up, and beneath the shelter of a neighbouring grapevine, perched on a limb that was the Cardinal’s own chosen resting-place, tucked her tired head beneath her wing, and went to rest. When she was soundly sleeping, the Cardinal crept as closely as he dared, and with one eye on his little gray love, and the other roving for any possible danger, he spent a night of watching for any danger that might approach.

  He was almost worn out; but this was infinitely better than the previous night, at any rate, for now he not only knew where she was, but she was fast asleep in his own favourite place. Huddled on the limb, the Cardinal gloated over her. He found her beauty perfect. To be sure, she was dishevelled; but she could make her toilet. There were a few feathers gone; but they would grow speedily. She made a heart-satisfying picture, on which the Cardinal feasted his love-sick soul, by the light of every straying moonbeam that slid around the edges of the grape leaves.

  Wave after wave of tender passion shook him. In his throat half the night he kept softly calling to her: “Come here! Come here!”

  Next morning, when the robins announced day beside the shining river, she awoke with a start; but before she could decide in which direction to fly, she discovered a nice fresh grub laid on the limb close to her, and very sensibly remained for breakfast. Then the Cardinal went to the river and bathed. He made such delightful play of it, and the splash of the water sounded so refreshing to the tired draggled bird, that she could not resist venturing for a few dips. When she was wet she could not fly well, and he improved the opportunity to pull her broken quills, help her dress herself, and bestow a few extra caresses. He guided her to his favourite place for a sun bath; and followed the farmer’s plow in the corn field until he found a big sweet beetle. He snapped off its head, peeled the stiff wing shields, and daintily offered it to her. He was so delighted when she took it from his beak, and remained in the sumac to eat it, that he established himself on an adjoining thorn-bush, where the snowy blossoms of a wild morning-glory made a fine background for his scarlet coat. He sang the old pleading song as he never had sung it before, for now there was a tinge of hope battling with the fear in his heart.

  Over and over he sang, rounding, fulling, swelling every note, leaning toward her in coaxing tenderness, flashing his brilliant beauty as he swayed and rocked, for her approval; and all that he had suffered and all that he hoped for was in his song. Just when his heart was growing sick within him, his straining ear caught the faintest, most timid call a lover ever answered. Only one imploring, gentle “Chook!” from the sumac! His song broke in a suffocating burst of exultation. Cautiously he hopped from twig to twig toward her. With tender throaty murmurings he slowly edged nearer, and wonder of wonders! with tired eyes and quivering wings, she reached him her beak for a kiss.

  At dinner that day, the farmer said to his wife:

  “Maria, if you want to hear the prettiest singin’, an’ see the cutest sight you ever saw, jest come down along the line fence an’ watch the antics o’ that redbird we been hearin’.”

  “I don’t know as redbirds are so scarce ‘at I’ve any call to wade through slush a half-mile to see one,” answered Maria.

  “Footin’s pretty good along the line fence,” said Abram, “an’ you never saw a redbird like this fellow. He’s as big as any two common ones. He’s so red every bush he lights on looks like it was afire. It’s past all question, he’s been somebody’s pet, an’ he’s taken me for the man. I can get in six feet of him easy. He’s the finest bird I ever set eyes on; an’ as for singin’, he’s dropped the weather, an’ he’s askin’ folks to his housewarmin’ to-day. He’s been there alone for a week, an’ his singin’s been first-class; but to-day he’s picked up a mate, an’ he’s as tickled as ever I was. I am really consarned for fear he’ll burst himself.”

  Maria sniffed.

  “Course, don’t come if you’re tired, honey,” said the farmer. “I thought maybe you’d enjoy it. He’s a-doin’ me a power o’ good. My joints are limbered up till I catch myself pretty near runnin’, on the up furrow, an’ then, down towards the fence, I go slow so’s to stay near him as long as I can.”

  Maria stared. “Abram Johnson, have you gone daft?” she demanded.

  Abram chuckled. “Not a mite dafter’n you’ll be, honey, once you set eyes on the fellow. Better come, if you can. You’re invited. He’s askin’ the whole endurin’ country to come.”

  Maria said nothing more; but she mentally decided she had no time to fool with a bird, when there were housekeeping and spring sewing to do. As she recalled Abram’s enthusiastic praise of the singer, and had a whiff of the odour-laden air as she passed from kitchen to spring-house, she was compelled to admit that it was a temptation to go; but she finished her noon work and resolutely sat down with her needle. She stitched industriously, her thread straightening with a quick nervous sweep, learned through years of experience; and if her eyes wandered riverward, and if she paused frequently with arrested hand and listened intently, she did not realize it. By two o’clock, a spirit of unrest that demanded recognition had taken possession of her. Setting her lips firmly, a scowl clouding her brow, she stitched on. By half past two her hands dropped in her lap, Abram’s new hickory shirt slid to the floor, and she hesitatingly arose and crossed the room to the closet, from which she took her overshoes, and set them by the kitchen fire, to have them ready in case she wanted them.

  “Pshaw!” she muttered, “I got this shirt to finish this afternoon. There’s butter an’ bakin’ in the mornin’, an’ Mary Jane Simms is comin’ for a visit in the afternoon.”

  She returned to the window and took up the shirt, sewing with unusual swiftness for the next half-hour; but by three she dropped it, and opening the kitchen door, gazed toward the river. Every intoxicating delight of early spring was in the air. The breeze that fanned her cheek was laden with subtle perfume of pollen and the crisp fresh odour of unfolding leaves. Curling skyward, like a beckoning finger, went a spiral of violet and gray smoke from the log heap Abram was burning; and scattered over spaces of a mile were half a dozen others, telling a story of the activity of his neighbours. Like the low murmur of distant music came the beating wings of hundreds of her bees, rimming the water trough, insane with thirst. On the wood-pile the guinea cock clattered incessantly: “Phut rack! Phut rack!” Across the dooryard came the old turkey-gobbler with fan tail and a rasping scrape of wing, evincing his delight in spring and mating time by a series of explosive snorts. On the barnyard gate the old Shanghai was lustily challenging to mortal combat one of his kind three miles across country. From the river arose the strident scream of her blue gander jealously guarding his harem. In the poultry-yard the hens made a noisy cackling party, and the stable lot was filled with cattle bellowing for the freedom of the meadow pasture, as yet scarcely ready for grazing.

  It seemed to the little woman, hesitating in the doorway, as if all nature had entered into a conspiracy to lure her from her work, and just then, clear and imperious, arose the demand of the Cardinal: “Come here! Come here!”

  Blank amazement filled her face. “As I’m a livin’ woman!” she gasped. “He’s changed his song! That’s what Abram meant by me bein’ invited. He’s askin’ folks to see his mate. I’m goin’.”

  The dull red of excitement sprang into her cheeks. She hurried on her overshoes, and drew an old shawl over her head. She crossed the dooryard, followed the path through the orchard, and came to the lane. Below the barn she turned back and attempted to cross. The mud was deep and thick, and she lost an overshoe; but with the help of a stick she pried it out, and replaced it.

  “Joke on me if I’d a-tumbled over in this mud,” she muttered.

  She entered the barn, and came out a minute later, carefully closing and buttoning the door, and started down the line fence toward the river.

  Half-way across the field Abram saw her coming. No need to recount how often he had looked in that direction during the afternoon. He slapped the lines on the old gray’s back and came tearing down the slope, his eyes flashing, his cheeks red, his hands firmly gripping the plow that rolled up a line of black mould as he passed.

  Maria, staring at his flushed face and shining eyes, recognized that his whole being proclaimed an inward exultation.

  “Abram Johnson,” she solemnly demanded, “have you got the power?”

  “Yes,” cried Abram, pulling off his old felt hat, and gazing into the crown as if for inspiration. “You’ve said it, honey! I got the power! Got it of a little red bird! Power o’ spring! Power o’ song! Power o’ love! If that poor little red target for some ornery cuss’s bullet can get all he’s getting out o’ life to-day, there’s no cause why a reasonin’ thinkin’ man shouldn’t realize some o’ his blessings. You hit it, Maria; I got the power. It’s the power o’ God, but I learned how to lay hold of it from that little red bird. Come here, Maria!”

  Abram wrapped the lines around the plow handle, and cautiously led his wife to the fence. He found a piece of thick bark for her to stand on, and placed her where she would be screened by a big oak. Then he stood behind her and pointed out the sumac and the female bird.

  “Jest you keep still a minute, an’ you’ll feel paid for comin’ all right, honey,” he whispered, “but don’t make any sudden movement.”

  “I don’t know as I ever saw a worse-lookin’ specimen ‘an she is,” answered Maria.

  “She looks first-class to him. There’s no kick comin’ on his part, I can tell you,” replied Abram.

  The bride hopped shyly through the sumac. She pecked at the dried berries, and frequently tried to improve her plumage, which certainly had been badly draggled; and there was a drop of blood dried at the base of her beak. She plainly showed the effects of her rough experience, and yet she was a most attractive bird; for the dimples in her plump body showed through the feathers, and instead of the usual wickedly black eyes of the cardinal family, hers were a soft tender brown touched by a love-light there was no mistaking. She was a beautiful bird, and she was doing all in her power to make herself dainty again. Her movements clearly indicated how timid she was, and yet she remained in the sumac as if she feared to leave it; and frequently peered expectantly among the tree-tops.

  There was a burst of exultation down the river. The little bird gave her plumage a fluff, and watched anxiously. On came the Cardinal like a flaming rocket, calling to her on wing. He alighted beside her, dropped into her beak a morsel of food, gave her a kiss to aid digestion, caressingly ran his beak the length of her wing quills, and flew to the dogwood. Mrs. Cardinal enjoyed the meal. It struck her palate exactly right. She liked the kiss and caress, cared, in fact, for all that he did for her, and with the appreciation of his tenderness came repentance for the dreadful chase she had led him in her foolish fright, and an impulse to repay. She took a dainty hop toward the dogwood, and the invitation she sent him was exquisite. With a shrill whistle of exultant triumph the Cardinal answered at a headlong rush.

  The farmer’s grip tightened on his wife’s shoulder, but Maria turned toward him with blazing, tear-filled eyes. “An’ you call yourself a decent man, Abram Johnson?”

  “Decent?” quavered the astonished Abram. “Decent? I believe I am.”

  “I believe you ain’t,” hotly retorted his wife. “You don’t know what decency is, if you go peekin’ at them. They ain’t birds! They’re folks!”

  “Maria,” pled Abram, “Maria, honey.”

  “I am plumb ashamed of you,” broke in Maria. “How d’you s’pose she’d feel if she knew there was a man here peekin’ at her? Ain’t she got a right to be lovin’ and tender? Ain’t she got a right to pay him best she knows? They’re jest common human bein’s, an’ I don’t know where you got privilege to spy on a female when she’s doin’ the best she knows.”

  Maria broke from his grasp and started down the line fence.

  In a few strides Abram had her in his arms, his withered cheek with its springtime bloom pressed against her equally withered, tear-stained one.

  “Maria,” he whispered, waveringly, “Maria, honey, I wasn’t meanin’ any disrespect to the sex.”

  Maria wiped her eyes on the corner of her shawl. “I don’t s’pose you was, Abram,” she admitted; “but you’re jest like all the rest o’ the men. You never think! Now you go on with your plowin’ an’ let that little female alone.”

  She unclasped his arms and turned homeward.

  “Honey,” called Abram softly, “since you brought ‘em that pocketful o’ wheat, you might as well let me have it.”

  “Landy!” exclaimed Maria, blushing; “I plumb forgot my wheat! I thought maybe, bein’ so early, pickin’ was scarce, an’ if you’d put out a little wheat an’ a few crumbs, they’d stay an’ nest in the sumac, as you’re so fond o’ them.”

  “Jest what I’m fairly prayin’ they’ll do, an’ I been carryin’ stuff an’ pettin’ him up best I knowed for a week,” said Abram, as he knelt, and cupped his shrunken hands, while Maria guided the wheat from her apron into them. “I’ll scatter it along the top rail, an’ they’ll be after it in fifteen minutes. Thank you, Maria. ‘T was good o’ you to think of it.”

  Maria watched him steadily. How dear he was! How dear he always had been! How happy they were together! “Abram,” she asked, hesitatingly, “is there anything else I could do for—your birds?”

  They were creatures of habitual repression, and the inner glimpses they had taken of each other that day were surprises they scarcely knew how to meet. Abram said nothing, because he could not. He slowly shook his head, and turned to the plow, his eyes misty. Maria started toward the line fence, but she paused repeatedly to listen; and it was no wonder, for all the redbirds from miles down the river had gathered around the sumac to see if there were a battle in birdland; but it was only the Cardinal, turning somersaults in the air, and screaming with bursting exuberance: “Come here! Come here!”

  CHAPTER 4: “SO DEAR! SO DEAR!” CROONED THE CARDINAL

  ~

  SHE HAD TAKEN POSSESSION of the sumac. The location was her selection and he loudly applauded her choice. She placed the first twig, and after examining it carefully, he spent the day carrying her others just as much alike as possible. If she used a dried grass blade, he carried grass blades until she began dropping them on the ground. If she worked in a bit of wild grape-vine bark, he peeled grape-vines until she would have no more. It never occurred to him that he was the largest cardinal in the woods, in those days, and he had forgotten that he wore a red coat. She was not a skilled architect. Her nest certainly was a loose ramshackle affair; but she had built it, and had allowed him to help her. It was hers; and he improvised a paean in its praise. Every morning he perched on the edge of the nest and gazed in songless wonder at each beautiful new egg; and whenever she came to brood she sat as if entranced, eyeing her treasures in an ecstasy of proud possession.

  Then she nestled them against her warm breast, and turned adoring eyes toward the Cardinal. If he sang from the dogwood, she faced that way. If he rocked on the wild grape-vine, she turned in her nest. If he went to the corn field for grubs, she stood astride her eggs and peered down, watching his every movement with unconcealed anxiety. The Cardinal forgot to be vain of his beauty; she delighted in it every hour of the day. Shy and timid beyond belief she had been during her courtship; but she made reparation by being an incomparably generous and devoted mate.

  And the Cardinal! He was astonished to find himself capable of so much and such varied feeling. It was not enough that he brooded while she went to bathe and exercise. The daintiest of every morsel he found was carried to her. When she refused to swallow another particle, he perched on a twig close by the nest many times in a day; and with sleek feathers and lowered crest, gazed at her in silent worshipful adoration.

 

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