Lords of high or low degree,
          To my story list will ye
          All of Aucassin and her
          That was Nicolette the fair? 
          And their love was long to tell;
          Deep woods through he sought her well: 
          Paynims took them on a day
          In Torelore, and bound they lay. 
          Of Aucassin naught know we,
          But fair Nicolette the free
            Now in Carthage doth she dwell;
            There her father loves her well,
          Who is king of that countrie. 
          Her a husband hath he found,
          Paynim lord that serves Mahound! 
          Ne’er with him the maid will go,
          For she loves a damoiseau,
          Aucassin, that ye may know,
          Swears to God that never mo
          With a lover will she go
          Save with him she loveth so
          In long desire.”

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON

(1780-1851)

The fame of this celebrated naturalist rests on one magnificent book, ‘The Birds of America,’ for which all his life may be said to have been a preparation, and which certainly surpasses in interest every other ornithological publication.  For fifteen years before he thought of making use of his collections in this way, he annually went alone with his gun and his drawing materials into deep and unexplored forests and through wild regions of country, making long journeys on foot and counting nothing a hardship that added to his specimens.  This passion had controlled him from early childhood.  His father, a Frenchman, was living in New Orleans at the time of Audubon’s birth in 1780, and with the view of helping him in his studies, sent him to Paris when he was fifteen years old, where he entered the drawing-class of David the painter.  He remained there two years; and it was after his return that he made his memorable excursions, his home being then a farm at Mill Grove, near Philadelphia.

In 1808 he removed with his family to the West, still continuing his researches.  Several years later he returned to Philadelphia with a portfolio of nearly a thousand colored drawings of birds.  What befell them—­a parallel to so many like incidents, as through Warburton’s cook, Newton’s dog, Carlyle’s friend, and Edward Livingston’s fire, that they seem one of the appointed tests of moral fibre—­is best told in Audubon’s own language:—­

“An accident,” he says, “which happened to two hundred of my original drawings, nearly put a stop to my researches in ornithology.  I shall relate it, merely to show how far enthusiasm—­for by no other name can I call my perseverance—­may enable the preserver of nature to surmount the most disheartening difficulties.  I left the village of Henderson, in Kentucky, situated on the banks of the Ohio, where I resided for several years, to proceed to Philadelphia on business.  I looked to my drawings