Dinner at Noon. 99 



now, unceasing as the murmur of the south 

 wind in the tall pines. The songs of many 

 thrushes are now completely filling every mo- 

 ment, every spot to which we wander. We 

 breathe the music as we do the odor of the 

 many blossoms. An all-pervading song of such 

 subtle sweetness is it that pleasure gives way at 

 last to a feeling akin to pain, sweetness that is 

 sad rather than cheerful ; the continued telling 

 of a sorrowful story, of love lost rather than of 

 love triumphant. 



How very different the song of the rose- 

 breasted grosbeak ! Not even those very learned 

 people, the professional ornithologists, appear to 

 have heard it. At least, judging from the litera- 

 ture of the subject, these birds have been heard 

 only to hum, to talk with their fellow-grosbeaks, 

 and whistle a few notes as if to refresh their 

 recollection of some special effort ; but the song 

 proper, the melodic outburst of flute-like notes, 

 notes that, by their magic, silence other birds 

 and will stay the steps of any mortal not a fool, 

 these appear not to be generally known : 

 grand, exultant, the peroration of cheerfulness, 

 the perfect hymn of absolute content. Hearing 



