XIV 



THE SYMPHONY OF VOICES 



J? ROM the pealing of thunder to the quiet rippHng of the brook, 

 the tones of Nature are the expression of her mood. When we lie 

 at the edge of the forest, when all is so still within us that our souls 

 are conscious of the life and growth of the plants, and when the 

 setting sun gilds the wide landscape, and behind us, from the darkling 

 thicket, the evening song of a bird rings out, our eyes and ears admit 

 us to a great Unity, of which we also, in happy self-obhvion, form 

 a part. 



It may be said that the voice of every bird is subtly attuned to 

 its surroundings. The notes of the birds that sing by day in the 

 sunlit forest are fresh and radiant; the bird that bids farewell to 

 the setting sun has notes of passionate melancholy; and the call 

 of the owl, as it echoes through woods at night, is dark with 

 their own mystery. The trills of the lark are as endless as 

 the heavenly blue in which it floats ; the confidences of the reed- 

 warblers remind one of the rustling of the reeds amidst which 

 they sing, and the whisper of the gravel in the swift places of 

 the stream. 



So each part of the earth has precisely the bird-voices that are 

 in tune with it, and those who seek to naturalize foreign birds in 

 their own country betray a complete incomprehension of the 

 harmonious art of Nature. And Nature revenges herself for such 

 discords in her symphony; for every creature torn from its natural 

 surroundings changes its habits and becomes a pest. In Australia, 

 for example, the European starHng has become a fruit-eater, and the 

 Indian starling an egg-stealer; the larks there feed on turnip-seed, 

 the greenfinches on corn, and to-day the Australians would gladly 

 be rid of these unwelcome guests. But this is not so easy; it may even 

 be utterly impossible; as it would be to exterminate the sparrow 

 which has naturalized itself in North America, spreading from New 

 York to San Francisco, to the despair of the farmers. 



When first I arrived in Rio it was raining. I was rowed ashore to 

 the quay from the coastal steamer by which I had come, and when 

 I landed and walked into the city across a great open praga I felt as 

 though I had left sunny Brazil, and was now in a seaport of Northern 

 Europe. The rain was beating down the smoke of the chimneys, 



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