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roar of the stream and the storm that there came 

 to me only a few notes of his energetic nesting- 

 time song. His expressive attitudes and gestures 

 were so harmoniously united with these, how- 

 ever, that I could not help feeling that he was 

 singing with all his might/ to the water, the woods, 

 and me. 



Keeping close to the stream, I continued my 

 climb. My ear now caught the feeble note of a 

 robin, who was making discouraged and discon- 

 solate efforts at song, and it seemed to issue from 

 a throat clogged with wet cotton. Plainly the 

 world was not beautiful to him, and the attempt 

 at music was made to kill time or cheer himself 

 up. 



The robin and the ouzel, how I love them 

 both, and yet how utterly unlike they are! The 

 former usually chooses so poor a building-site, 

 anchors its nest so carelessly, or builds so clum- 

 sily, that the precious contents are often spilled 

 or the nest discovered by some enemy. His 

 mental make-up is such that he is prone to pre- 

 dict the worst possible outcome of any new 

 situation. The ouzel, on the other hand, is sweet 



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