68 Musings by Camp-Fire and Wayside 



One must be at a distance from the band before 

 he can hear the music. The voice of a friend, 

 properly modulated and near, is pleasant; but let 

 that friend call from a distance, and it gathers a 

 charm as it comes. It is kindlier, softer, and it 

 may be sweeter. It implies interest, regard, and a 

 welcome. It is the language of fellowship, and 

 friendship spoken in music. In this pleasure we 

 share with all our fellow-occupants of the earth. 

 Observe any bird or quadruped when a sound from 

 a strange source comes to him. He does not hear 

 it. But let a call come from a mate or a rival or a 

 fledgling, and he is at once all attention. We think 

 bird song is sweet, but to other birds of the same 

 species it is the most welcome experience in their 

 little lives. A woman's song in a parlor is a per- 

 formance; in the woods it is an inspiration. The 

 most inspiring strains heard on the earth were two — 

 when the morning stars sang the hymn of creation, 

 and when the angels sang the hymn of redemption. 

 The voice of a singing congregation may be fine, 

 and even noble, within the walls and roof of the 

 church, but let it float out of the open summer win- 

 dows, across gardens and fields, and among the 

 trees, and it becomes sublime. It brings God very 

 near to us. Life is not noisy. It has its voices in 

 infinite variety, but they are gentle. The soughing 

 of the pines, the rustle of the growing corn, the 

 mooing of the cows, even the strong wind making 

 flutes of the eaves, are not noisy. They do not jar 



