iRamble 



sake, married out of meeting. In a quiet way, 

 this was a lively neighborhood ; and the one-time 

 footpath and stile in a little grove could tell a 

 pretty story if they would but speak. But because 

 abandoned now of men, it was by no means deso- 

 late. A troop of tree sparrows followed me 

 they are usually quite wild and pine-finches 

 dropped from the clouds. The twittering of a 

 hundred birds is equal to the single effort of an 

 accomplished songster, and yet the guardian spirit 

 of the place was not satisfied, and a Carolina wren 

 came darting out of some dark hollow of the old 

 willows and sang. The voice of this bird works 

 a miracle. It is the magician's wand that trans- 

 forms gloom to glitter, darkness to light, night to 

 day. Winter stands back ; the north wind checks 

 its headlong course ; the whole world listens with 

 bated breath lest it lose a single note. What a 

 yule-tide greeting was this, and in the one-time 

 haunt of my own people, too, more than a century 

 ago. There is something more in a bird's song 

 than mere music. 



It might be thought, I can readily see, that the 

 effect of much bird- song would not be pleasant at 

 this time of the year. We are so accustomed to 

 think of winter as a season of rest and compara- 

 tive silence, that any sudden outburst of joyous- 

 ness grates upon us. It is untimely, and, so, un- 

 tuneful. So much for your theorists and the dusty 

 commonplaces of your feather counters and egg 

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