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How different in character from his song is that of the gallant
little black-cap in the tree above him. A gentleman he is of a most
ancient house, perhaps the oldest of European singing birds. How
perfect must have been the special organization which has spread
seemingly without need of alteration or improvement, from Norway to
the Cape of Good Hope, from Japan to the Azores. How many ages must
have passed since his forefathers first got their black caps. And
how intense and fruitful must have been the original vitality which,
after so many generations, can still fill that little body with so
strong a soul, and make him sing as Milton's new-created birds sang
to Milton's Eve in Milton's Paradise. Sweet he is, and various,
rich, and strong, beyond all English warblers, save the nightingale:
but his speciality is his force, his rush, his overflow, not so much
of love as of happiness. The spirit carries him away. He riots up
and down the gamut till he cannot stop himself; his notes tumble over
each other; he chuckles, laughs, shrieks with delight, throws back
his head, droops his tail, sets up his back, and sings with every
fibre of his body: and yet he never forgets his good manners.
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