A Book on Birds 



delightful as we found him; he was so subtle 

 and exquisitely delicate in his methods. 



But before long we awoke to a realization 

 that he was illumining the season and our 

 souls with the renascent gladness of an 

 April sunbeam. 



To begin with, he was the very quintes- 

 sence of music; — music of the rare sort; 

 not loud and noisy, like that of some of his 

 folk; but sweet and low, soft and appeahng 

 —like the faint call of a brook from moss and 

 fern through the forest, or the last echo 

 of an evening bell in a distant valley beyond 

 the hills; — music that drew you ever so 

 gently from soul-ensnaring dreams at dawn, 

 and lulled you back to them at night. 



Sometimes it bubbled with the quiet 

 laughter of joy for you — sometimes with 

 the hghter and scarce audible laughter 

 of affection; but always for you, always for 

 you, — as if with every note he were thinking 

 of your sorrow and striving that the dark- 

 ness might never fall too heavily, nor the 

 bleak winds quite pierce to the secret of 

 your being. 



[176] 



