THE HEAVENLY SONG. 157 



domestic corner of the pasture, I passed on to 

 the riverside nook I have mentioned. Here my 

 seat was on the edge of the bank, high above the 

 stream, shaded by a group of black and battered 

 old spruces that looked as if they had faced the 

 storms of a hundred stern Maine winters, as 

 probably they had. Pine-trees at my back filled 

 the air with odors ; a thicket beloved of small 

 birds stretched away at one side. Across the 

 river spread a sunny knoll, on which stood a 

 huge old apple-tree, contemporary perhaps with 

 the spruces, having one attractive dead branch, 

 and surrounded at a little distance with a semi- 

 circle of shrubs and low trees. It was a tempt- 

 ing theatre for bird dramas, which the solitary 

 student, half hidden on the bank above, could 

 overlook and bring to clear vision with a glass, 

 while not herself conspicuous enough to startle 

 the actors. In this lovely spot many mornings 

 of that happy July passed delightfully away. 



In the leafy background to the apple-tree 

 dwelt the veery. From its apparently impene- 

 trable depths came his warning calls, and on 

 rare and blessed occasions his heavenly song ; 

 for it was July, and it is only in June that 



" New England woods at close of day, 

 With that dear chant are ringing." 



For, with all the rhapsody in his soul, this 

 thrush is a devoted parent, and notwithstanding 



