THE SECKET OF APPRECIATION. 219 
own to distract my mind. I could have forgiven 
almost any trick a bird had seen fit to play me. 
The brown creeper, just from his haunt in some 
primeval forest of British America, went hitching up 
a tree-bole in his own quaint way without even the 
courtesy of a friendly how-d’-you-do; but I forgave 
the slight, and told him he was a poet, — there was 
rhythm in every movement, and his feathers rhymed 
each with its fellow. 
Across the breezy hills to the river valley I made 
my way in lightsome mood, finding birds a-plenty 
wherever I went. More than once the song-spar- 
rows broke into their autumnal twitter, aftermath of 
their springtime choruses when they were in full 
tone ; and occasionally the Carolina wren uttered 
his stirring reveille, which, though perhaps not tune- 
ful in itself, seemed tuneful to me that day, because 
there was music in my own mind. When you are 
in the right mood, even the distant caw of the crow 
or the plaintive cry of the blue jay sets the harp of 
your soul to melody; while the riotous piping of the 
cardinal grossbeak makes you feel as if you were 
‘married to immortal verse.” 
But, alas! when “loathed melancholy, of Cer- 
berus and blackest midnight born,” is your unbidden 
companion, every overture of Nature is a burden, an 
intrusion into the privacy of your grief, and — 
“ Vainly morning spreads her lure 
Of a sky serene and pure.”’ 
In a leaf-strewn arcade beneath the overarching 
bushes hard by the river, were the merry juncos, my 
