THE SUMMIT OF THE YEARS 



the air I have breathed, through the soles of my 

 feet, through the twinkle of the leaves, and the glint 

 of the waters. I have gone a-fishing, and read their 

 secrets out of the corners of my eyes. I have lounged 

 under a tree, and the book of their lives has been 

 opened to me. I have hoed in my garden, and read 

 the histories they write in the air. Studied the 

 birds? No, I have played with them, camped with 

 them, gone berrying with them, summered and 

 wintered with them, and my knowledge of them 

 has filtered into my mind almost unconsciously. 



The bird as a piece of living nature is what inter- 

 ests me, having vital relations to all out-of-doors, 

 and capable of linking my mind to itself and its 

 surroundings with threads of delightful associations. 

 The live bird is a fellow passenger; we are making 

 the voyage together, and there is a sympathy 

 between us that quickly leads to knowledge. If I 

 looked upon it as something to be measured and 

 weighed and tabulated, or as a subject for labora- 

 tory experimentation, my ornithology would turn 

 to ashes in my hands. 



The whole of nature, directly or indirectly, goes 

 with him who gives his mind to objects in the open 

 air. The observer of bird-life in the open has heaven 

 and earth thrown in. WeJ^Jjie.e_d^not hajrp.joa this 

 string. All lovers of life in the open know what I 

 would say. The book of living nature is unlike 

 other books in this respect : one can read it over and 

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