904 BIRDS THROUGH AN OPERA-GLASS. 
were blossoming. Pushing up through the dead 
leaves hundreds of yellow adder tongues turned 
back their petals and darted out their red sta- 
mens ; colonies of spring beauties were springing 
up in the woods, raising their tiny pearl stems, 
spreading out their two slender green leaves, and 
opening their delicate crowning cups of pure 
white or delicate rose. At the foot of the tree 
trunks clusters of “ladies and gentlemen,” — 
“ squirrels’ corn,” some call them — looked from 
their luxuriant cover of green leaf filaments. 
And close to the ground lay the children’s shin- 
ing red fungus “cups and saucers” to light up 
the woods. But in the midst of all this mute 
loveliness the minstrel of the forest came to sing 
for the flowers their lay of the spring. Sitting 
almost motionless on the dead branch of a fallen 
tree top, the thrush poured forth his oh!-tir-a-lee- 
lee in ever varying tone and melody, till the woods 
seemed enriched by the marvellous song. 
Each bird seems to voice some phase of nature. 
The bobolink sings for the sunny meadow, the 
vireo for the shaded tree top, the goldfinch for 
the blue sky, the indigo-bird for the passing 
breezes, and the whippoorwill for the night; but 
the hermit thrush chants the forest Te Deums 
for sunrise and sunset. Ever since I was a child, 
in the long summer evenings we have walked 
through the woods to “ William Miller Hill,” to 
see the sunset and listen to the hermit’s vespers. 
