I went up to the top of the house, the
better to behold the winged procession. The day seemed memorable
and poetic in which such sights occurred.
[Footnote: This proved to be the last flight of the pigeons
in the valley of the Hudson. The whole tribe has now (1895)
been nearly exterminated by pot-hunters. The few that still
remain appear to be scattered through the Northern States
in small, loose flocks.]
While I was looking at the pigeons, a flock of wild geese went by,
harrowing the sky northward. The geese strike a deeper chord than
the pigeons. Level and straight they go as fate to its mark. I
cannot tell what emotions these migrating birds awaken in me,--the
geese especially. One seldom sees more than a flock or two in a
season, and what a spring token it is! The great bodies are in
motion. It is like the passage of a victorious army. No longer inch
by inch does spring come, but these geese advance the standard
across zones at one pull. How my desire goes with them; how
something in me, wild and migratory, plumes itself and follows
fast!
"Steering north, with raucous cry,
Through tracts and provinces of sky,
Every night alighting down
In new landscapes of romance,
Where darkling feed the clamorous clans
By lonely lakes to men unknown."
Dwelling upon these sights, I am reminded that the seeing of spring
come, not only upon the great wings of the geese and the lesser
wings of the pigeons and birds, but in the many more subtle and
indirect signs and mediums, is also a part of the compensation of
living in the country.
Pages:
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86