There Was Then Nothing In The Universe
Which Could Compare In Loveliness To That Spectacle.
I was a
worshipper of trees at this season, and I remember my shocked and
indignant feeling when one day a flock of green paroquets came
screaming down and alighted on one of the trees near me.
This paroquet
never bred in our plantation; they were occasional visitors from their
home in an old grove about nine miles away, and their visits were
always a great pleasure to us. On this occasion I was particularly
glad, because the birds had elected to settle on a tree close to where
I was standing. But the blossoms thickly covering every twig annoyed
the parrots, as they could not find space enough to grasp a twig
without grasping its flower as well; so what did the birds do in their
impatience but begin stripping the blossoms off the branches on which
they were perched with their sharp beaks, so rapidly that the flowers
came down in a pink shower, and in this way in half a minute every
bird made a twig bare where he could sit perched at ease. There were
millions of blossoms; only one here and there would ever be a peach,
yet it vexed me to see the parrots cut them off in that heedless way:
it was a desecration, a crime even in a bird.
Even now when I recall the sight of those old flowering peach trees,
with trunks as thick as a man's body, and the huge mounds or clouds of
myriads of roseate blossoms seen against the blue ethereal sky, I am
not sure that I have seen anything in my life more perfectly
beautiful. Yet this great beauty was but half the charm I found in
these trees: the other half was in the bird-music that issued from
them. It was the music of but one kind of bird, a small greenish
yellow field finch, in size like the linnet though with a longer and
slimmer body, and resembling a linnet too in its general habits. Thus,
in autumn it unites in immense flocks, which keep together during the
winter months and sing in concert and do not break up until the return
of the breeding season. In a country where there were no bird-catchers
or human persecutors of small birds, the flocks of this finch, called
_Misto_ by the natives, were far larger than any linnet flocks ever
seen in England. The flock we used to have about our plantation
numbered many thousands, and you would see them like a cloud wheeling
about in the air, then suddenly dropping and vanishing from sight in
the grass, where they fed on small seeds and tender leaves and buds.
On going to the spot they would rise with a loud humming sound of
innumerable wings, and begin rushing and whirling about again, chasing
each other in play and chirping, and presently all would drop to the
ground again.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 33 of 186
Words from 17684 to 18183
of 98444