STORIES ABOUT BIRDS. 291 



away. Never in my life did I have so vivid a 

 sense of the goodness of God in filling the 

 forest, and meadow, and orchard, with the 

 music of birds, as while this thrush was pour- 

 ing out his melody. Oh how rich, how tender, 

 how exquisite was this music ! It subdued, 

 calmed, melted, almost charmed me ; and when 

 that warbler flew away, and my eyes saw him 

 no more, my spirit went with him, followed 

 him in his flight, and caroled with him amid 

 the dancing leaves of the deep forest. Hours 

 afterward, while mingling with the gay crowd 

 at my hotel, I seemed to hear the notes of that 

 bird. Seemed to hear them ! I did hear them. 

 Does not the spirit hear voices and see scenes 

 with which the outward ear and eye have 

 nothing to do ? " But that is imagination, 

 fancy, delusion," you say. It is neither. It 

 is reality — reality, I often think, in the very 

 highest sense. "But the birds — the birds. Let 

 us hear about the birds." That is precisely the 

 matter I am talking about. Did it ever occur 

 to you, little friend, what a similarity there is, 

 in some respects, between a spirit — a human 

 spirit — and a bird of the air ? 



Wilson tells us of one thrush in particular, 

 with whom he was acquainted, that surprised 

 and delighted him above measure. "I could 



