And who were its enemies--two glorious mocking birds, that had sung like spirits from an angel choir around my home all spring and summer--that had reared their young in contentment and happiness and should have had nothing against any of God’s creatures, whose life had been a poem, whose breath a summer song--alas, that these should have been its murderers! It almost makes me despair of the ethics of life. I feel like saying to man: “Go, murder your fellow men--it is nature. Go, rob, steal and plunder--it is law.” And is it not law? In spite of the ethics of religion and dictates of equity, is it not at last a question of one getting and the other giving--of money, love--ay, even life? Golden Wings was in my garden and he was content until that which sustained his life gave out--food. He had sucked every flower--he must go to pastures new. The distance to my neighbor’s garden was some two hundred yards, and there was nothing but air between us. He thought of it a long time--he hovered from flower to flower and thought--of his mate, of life, of death. Had he been all spirit he had stayed forever among the flowers. He had run no chance of death. But he was half spirit and half life and that life was rebelling and begging for food. He must go. It was life or death. He rose reluctantly--frightened--straight up--every sense awake--every nerve keyed--every eye on the lookout for an enemy--the spirit which had never harmed even a flower, and which should have had no enemy. Up, straight up, he arose--quivering, scared, frightened--then winged his way across the blue ether in a flight, as it proved, for its life. The mocking-bird is a fly catcher, but not an expert one. Compared with the swallow, the marten, the crested fly-catcher, the expert king bird, the wood pewee, and Phoebe, he is a poor imitation. But the mocking-bird is a poet, and everything is grist that comes to a poet’s mill--from the grasshopper on the ground to the butterfly in the air. The male bird saw Golden Wings first and gave him the first heat for his life. Up in the air he darted, circled and swooped. Poor Golden Wings fled, turned, ducked, dived--and escaped. The poet dropped to his twig in disgust, and his mate took up the race. Golden Wings saw her coming and his heart bursted with fear. He fairly quivered in the air. He knew not which way to turn. She darted, and all but caught him. For a moment, in mid-air, I saw them whirling and twisting and tumbling--poor Golden Wings panting and fluttering for a chance once more for home and life, and the poetess for a morsel to eat. It ended in the butterfly getting above the bird--which seemed always its tactics--while the latter dropped down in disgust to her mate. Then they both started after poor Golden Wings, and it looked as if his time had come. But all the time he had been heading straight for the thick trees beyond, where rested, perhaps, his distressed mate, waiting for his return.