It was a robin. A dear brother
had kept him several years, and, on leaving home for a residence in
Boston, where he could not take care of the bird, he gave him to me. It
was not at a season of the year when we could safely release him from
confinement; and, besides that, our oldest brother had taught him to
whistle parts of several tunes, and we feared, moreover, that he might
suffer even in the best season of the year, from the fact of his having
been taken when so young from other robins. Confinement, probably, does
not destroy the instinct of birds, so that they would starve if
released. After having been an inmate of our family nine years, having
suffered countless frights and manglings from the many kittens we had
kept in the time, he at last died by the claws of the family cat, when
released one fine afternoon for an airing, and to have his cage cleaned.
I never since have wished to own a caged bird. The song of a canary
bird, born and reared in a cage, never pleases me like the cheerful
warbling or merry whistle of the wild, free birds of our woodlands. The
one seems but the expression of a cheerful forgiveness of unkind
treatment, the bursting forth of a happy nature in spite of man's
cruelty; while the other seems a free outpouring of perfect happiness,
and the choicest notes of a grateful little being directed to the good
GOD of nature.
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