A
duty was laid on him to go back to the place where he was bred; and
he must do it: and now it is done; and he is weary, and sad, and
lonely; and, for aught we know, thinking already that when the leaves
begin to turn yellow, he must go back again, over the Channel, over
the Landes, over the Pyrenees, to Morocco once more. Why should he
not be sad? He is a very delicate bird, as both his shape and his
note testify. He can hardly keep up his race here in England; and is
accordingly very uncommon, while his two cousins, the willow wren and
the chiffchaff, who, like him, build for some mysterious reason domed
nests upon the ground, are stout, and busy, and numerous, and
thriving everywhere. And what he has gone through may be too much
for the poor wood wren's nerves; and he gives way; while willow wren,
black-cap, nightingale, who have gone by the same road and suffered
the same dangers, have stoutness of heart enough to throw off the
past, and give themselves up to present pleasure. Why not?--who
knows? There is labour, danger, bereavement, death in nature; and
why should not some, at least, of the so-called dumb things know it,
and grieve at it as well as we?
Why not?--Unless we yield to the assumption (for it is nothing more)
that these birds act by some unknown thing called instinct, as it
might be called x or y; and are, in fact, just like the singing birds
which spring out of snuff-boxes, only so much better made, that they
can eat, grow, and propagate their species.
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