114 THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 



Behind me a redbird was whistling (car- 

 dinal grosbeak, I have been accustomed to 

 call him, but I like the Southern name bet- 

 ter, in spite of its ambiguity), now in eager, 

 rapid tones, now slowly and with a dying 

 fall. Now his voice fell almost to a whis- 

 per, now it rang out again ; but always it 

 was sweet and golden, and always the bird 

 was out of sight in the shrubbery. The 

 orange-trees were in bloom ; the air was 

 full of their fragrance, full also of the mur- 

 mur of bees. All at once a deeper note 

 struck in, and I turned to look. A hum- 

 ming-bird was hovering amid the white 

 blossoms and glossy leaves. 1 saw his 

 flaming throat, and the next instant he was 

 gone, like a flash of light, the first hum- 

 mer of the year. I was far from home, and 

 expectant of new things. That, I dare say, 

 was the reason why I took the sound at first 

 for the boom of a bumble-bee ; some strange 

 Meridian bee, with a deeper and more me- 

 lodious bass than any Northern insect is 

 master of. 



It is good to be here, I say to myself, and 

 we need no tabernacle. All things are in 

 harmony. A crow in the distance says 



