MORNING CONCERT. 195 



ceases his song the moment he enters the forest, and 

 flits silently from one lofty branch to another, as if in 

 constant fear of a secret enemy. If you want to lis- 

 ten to the music of birds, go to some field that borders 

 on the woods, and there, before sunrise of a summer 

 morning, you will hear such an orchestra as never be- 

 fore greeted your ears. There are no dying cadences 

 and rapturous bursts and prolonged swells, but one 

 continuous strain of joy. Yet there is every variety 

 of tone, from the clear, round note of the robin, to the 

 shrill piping of the sparrow. No time is kept, and no 

 scale is followed — each is striving to outwarble the 

 other, and yet there seems the most perfect accord. 

 No jar is made by all the conflicting instruments — 

 the whole heavens are full of voices tuned to a 

 different key — each pausing or breaking in as it suits 

 its mood — and yet the harmony remains the same. 

 It is unwritten music such as nature furnishes — filling 

 the soul with a delight and joy it never before 

 experienced. 



But this is found only in the fields — our great 

 forests are too sombre and shadowy for such glees. 

 Still you find music there. There is a certain kind 

 occurring only at intervals, which chills the heart lilce 



