A Morning in May. 87 



as is that of man. Generalizations as to morn- 

 ings in May, as of many another matter of 

 Nature, are of no particular value, but of one 

 recent morning I can speak with confidence, for 

 haply I was astir at dawn. The robin started 

 a little trickling stream of song down the hill- 

 side, and before it had crossed the meadows 

 and reached the river this same trickling stream 

 was swollen to a flood of melody. There was 

 not a silent second for three full hours ; not a 

 moment unburdened with sweet sound. Had 

 the rambler been in pursuit of some single 

 song ; had he wished to hear the rose-breasted 

 grosbeak, or one of the vireos, or desired to 

 single out the utterance of some migratory war- 

 bler, his efforts would have proved in vain. This 

 bewildering confusion of infinitely varied sounds 

 cannot in its entirety be considered, in a scien- 

 tific sense, as music. An orchestra would be 

 mobbed that attempted to reproduce it ; so, 

 why is it that the birds' salutation to the rising 

 sun does not offend the ear? It is true, I have 

 heard of a musician who swore at a nightingale 

 and exclaimed "What discord !" but the world 

 at large has thousands of less critical ears, and 



