WAYSIDE RAMBLES. 13 
short distance down the hollow a song-sparrow 
thrummed his harp, while a cooing dove lent her 
dreamy threnody to the wayside trio. Although 
engaged in the prosaic act of eating my luncheon, 
I breathed in an atmosphere of poetry and romance, 
and half expected a company of water-witches and 
dryads to leap upon the greensward before me 
and dance to the music of bird and brook. A 
pagan I am not, —at least, such is my hope; but 
moods subjunctive sometimes seize me when I do 
not blame the Greeks — aye, rather, when I praise 
them — for peopling the woods with Pan and his 
retinue; for I feel the influence of a strange, 
mystical, and more than impersonal presence. 
Yes, one’s dreams sometimes take on a specula- 
tive cast, even on a day that seems to be “the bridal 
of the earth and sky.” In this unfrequented spot 
the birds sing their sweetest carols, be there a human 
ear to hear or not. Do they sing merely for their 
own delectation, these little creatures of a day? 
Is there not far too much sweetness wasted on the 
desert air? Would there not be more purpose in 
Nature could these dulcet strains be treasured in 
some way, so that they might be poured into man’s 
appreciative ear? Why has Nature made no pho- 
nographs? Wherefore all this waste of ointment ? 
Does Nature encourage the habits of the spend- 
thrift? I recall a summer day when I strolled 
along a deep, lonely ravine. It was at least a mile 
to the nearest human dwelling. Suddenly a clear, 
melodious trill from a song-sparrow’s lusty throat 
