XXII 

 GENERAL AND MISCELLANEOUS 



March 4, 1840. I learned to-day that my ornithology 

 had done me no service. The birds I heard, which for- 

 tunately did not come within the scope of my science, 

 sung as freshly as if it had been the first morning of 

 creation, and had for background to their song an un- 

 trodden wilderness, stretching through many a Carolina 

 and Mexico of the soul. 



April 25, 1841. A momentous silence reigns always 

 in the woods, and their meaning seems just ripening into 

 expression. But alas ! they make no haste. The rush 

 sparrow,* Nature's minstrel of serene hours, sings of an 

 immense leisure and duration. 



When I hear a robin sing at sunset, I cannot help 

 contrasting the equanimity of Nature with the bustle 

 and impatience of man. We return from the lyceum 

 and caucus with such stir and excitement as if a crisis 

 were at hand ; but no natural scene or sound sympathizes 

 with us, for Nature is always silent and unpretending 

 as at the break of day. She but rubs her eyelids. 



Sept. 29, 1842. To-day the lark sings again down in 

 the meadow, and the robin peeps, and the bluebirds, old 

 and young, have revisited their box, as if they would 

 fain repeat the summer without the intervention of 

 winter, if Nature would let them. 



^ [The field sparrow. See note on p. 299.] 



