14 IN BIRD LAND. 
rippled through the stillness, making my pulses 
flutter. Here, doubtless, the little Arion had sung 
his roundels all summer long, and perhaps I had 
been the only person who had heard him, and then 
I had caught only a few tantalizing strains — simply 
enough to give a taste for more. Why was the 
peerless triller apparently burying his talents in this 
solitary haunt ? 
It may be true of bird song, as of the recluse 
flower, that “‘ beauty is its own excuse for being; ” 
but I am not ashamed to record my confession of 
faith, my creed, on this matter; not my dreamy 
cogitations with 2/s and mayhaps. ‘There is a divine 
ear which catches every strain of wayside melody, 
and appreciates it at its true value. ‘Thus, no beauty 
or sweetness is ever lost, no bird or flower is really 
an anchorite. A bird may flit away in alarm at the 
approach of a human intruder, and may not lisp a 
note until he is well out of the haunt; but the same 
songster will unconsciously pour his dithyrambs all 
summer long into the ear of God. Nature was not 
made for man alone; it was also made for its Cre- 
ator. Never has the brown thrasher sung with such 
enchanting vigor and abandon as he did the other 
day at the corner of the woods when he thought no 
human auditor within ear-shot. He was singing for 
God, albeit unconsciously. 
It is high time to get back to my waysiding, if I 
may coin a word. You must go to an out-of-the- 
way resort, far from the din of loom and factory, to 
feel the quaint, delicate fancy of Sidney Lanier’s 
lines, — 
