The Widow-Bird—A Legend of Paraguay

TN summer, emotions are richer and fuller than in spring ; that is why those who have suffered in summer take many a long year to mend their wounded

souls. The passions of spring are violent because they surge up from our depths, suddenly roused after the sleep of winter. Every year we feel the same vigorous pleasure at the thought that we are still able to enjoy renewed life ; but these passions are too violent to be lasting ; that is why the faults of spring are in autumn forgot.

Thus said an old Paraguayan peasant before telling the legends of his country, where spring is short and summer long, and nature's law is all-powerful.

Many is the year now that the Widow-Bird has sighed over her miserable fate ; countless are the days on which she has regretted that spring dawn when, hi spite of herself, she dared to lift her eyes to the sun. Had it been better to ignore his gazes, to have lent an attentive and encouraging ear to her other suitor—or would she have remained eternally happy in the memory of one brief, but exquisite, moment spent with that king of deceivers, that handsome, flighty youth who lit up the world every day with the brilliance of his face ? What, indeed, had been best ? Like many another young girl, site spoilt her life through principles too rigorous.

Long ago this happened.

His face was fair, his heart belonged to every beautiful girl he saw. Each dawn he rose with equal splendour, and took with him on his journey one lovely maid. Of her no one ever heard again. He saw so many who would come—why should he keep to one alone ?

She had long nourished a secret love for him, but, alas ! he was so high. Every morning he saw her at her toilet, and wondered that a mortal could be so fair. At last she raised her eyes to him ; and he asked her to follow, but she dare not. He went his way . . . she stayed and wept.

One day at last, with burning passion, he besought her to be his : " Answer now, Fair One, for I must be on the road, I cannot stop. Come with me to-day . . . now . . . ! "

" Alas ! my Lord," said she, " I cannot come unless you promise to make of me your lawful wife—then will I come."

" Fool ! How can I do that—how can I tell that I shall love you always ? Now is the time ; come ! "

" Ah, my Lord, I cannot. . . ."

" Then stay ! Noise else shall have you I " Thus saying, he was gone ; blazing and burning all on his way; such was his fury. But she remained behind, and wept that she had angered her Lord. Little she knew the fate that hers was to be.

As she wept, she felt her hands and arms grow downy ; her tears stopped flowing, and her eyes became bright, round, and alert, Her toes grew longer, her feet grew smaller, her legs were covered with hard grey skin. Her hands vanished, and her shoulders were covered with long brown feathers—her body was that of a bird. . . .

In horror-she raised her eyes to see who thus had punished her ; she saw the sun was sinking—had sunk behind the woods. A piercing shriek tore the air, starting high, and gradually falling lower and lower in long drawn-out sobs, each catching at the throat more poignantly than the last, until it died away, a shivering moan of pain and despair. She was the Widow-Bird.

Many are the summers she has spent, silently watching the sun on his endless race. Her only food is the flies which she catches with inexorable snap when they defile the air between her and her Lord. At night she mourns her fate on a long, heartrending sigh that starts from a full, high note and falls, like a cascade of sorrow, into a deep, drawn-out moan.

Woe to him who hears her laments ! Nothing but ill