SOME MINOR SONG-BIRDS. 153 



gems fresh from the fabled fires of the em- 

 pyrean. 



Reading the above sentence over, I feel its 

 coarseness in the presence of a genuine blue- 

 bird-sheen and blue-bird-warble reaching me 

 as I write. How artificial and insincere are 

 the verbal rhapsodies of the most natural of 

 our poets when set in the searching light of 

 unconscious nature ! Why do not the blue- 

 bird's notes, arranged always in the same 

 order and expressed always with precisely the 

 same tone, accent, and emphasis, become 

 stale ? Why does not the bird's manner grow 

 perfunctory ? Who ever did get weary of hear- 

 ing over and over, from day to day, spring 

 after spring, those liquid bird-phrases that, 

 pitched to a strange minor, have been the 

 same since first an oscine throat was filled 

 with music ? We must all, even the most un- 

 imaginative of us, acknowledge a little impulse 

 to gush and get rid of a fine fury of sentiment 

 about the time when a flash of green, a thrill 

 of warmth and balm, and a gush of bird-song 

 go across the fields and woods. 



The man who can look into a bird's nest, 

 well-set with tender-hued eggs, without feeling 

 an inward smile, as if his soul were sweetly 

 pleased, has lost something that is the chief 

 ingredient of perfect sanity and simplicity. 

 What is usually meant by the word sentiment- 

 ality is an abomination; but our human na- 

 ture, in a state of absolute health, is furnished 

 with a myriad little well-springs of generous 

 sympathy and sweet responsiveness, that 

 should not be allowed to go dry. If the fra- 

 grant, essential elements of a healthy soul 

 may be called sentiments, then let sentiment- 



