MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._
Warble, whistle and ripple! wake! whip up! ha! ha! Burgle, bubble and frolic--a roundelay far! Pearls on pearls break and roll like bright drops from a bowl! And they thrill, as they spill in a rill, o'er my soul: Then thou laughest so light From thy rapturous height! Earth and Heaven are combined, in thy full dulcet tone; North and south pour the nectar thy throat blends in one! Flute and flageolet, bugle, light zither, guitar! Diamond, topaz and ruby! Sun, moon, silver star! Ripe cherries in wine! Orange blossoms divine! Genius of Songsters! so matchless in witchery! Nature hath fashioned thee out of her mystery!
JOHN WARD STIMSON, in _Wandering Chords._
Can anything be more ecstatic than the mockingbird's manner as he pours out his soul in song, flirting that expressive tail--that seems hung on wires, jerking those emphatic wings, which say so much, turning his dainty head this way and that, and now and then flinging himself upon the air--light as a feather--in pure delight, and floating down to place again without dropping a note. It is a poem in action to see him, so lithe, so graceful in every movement.
Each flower a single fragrance gives, But not the perfume of the rest; Within each fruit one flavor lives, Not all the flavors of our quest; In every bird one song we note That seems the sweeter without words; Yet from the mock-bird's mellow throat Come all the songs of other birds.
FRED EMERSON BROOKS, in _Pickett's Charge and Other Poems._
When a mocking-bird looks squarely at you, not turning his head one side, and then the other, like most birds, but showing his front face and using both eyes at once, like an owl--when he looks squarely at you in this way, he shows a wise, wise face. You almost believe he could speak if he would, and you cannot resist the feeling that he is more intelligent than he has any right to be, having behind those clear, sharp eyes, only "blind instinct," as the wise men say.
A sunset in San Juan is truly worth crossing either a continent or an ocean to witness, when the ranges toward La Paz are purple where the sage-brush is, and rose-color where the rains have washed the steep places to the clay, and over all of mesa and mountain the soft glory of golden haze.