My Elm-Tree Oriole. 123 



race, while threading the maze of branches of 

 this fine old tree, sang in dulcet tones these 

 cheerful words : " Music, good music, all day !" 

 My oriole I called it from the day it came, 

 and when you take to a bird it often happens 

 that the bird will take to you. Not actually, as 

 you might say this of a person, but so it seems 

 in your fancy, and that is practically the same 

 thing. Whether the bird knew me or not, I 

 knew the bird. The elm-tree was not the 

 oriole's only home. It wandered along the 

 hill-side, even to my neighbor's door-yard, and 

 often was so far away that I could scarcely hear 

 the sweet song that so effectually drove away 

 dull care. But these wanderings were always 

 of short duration. The distance was never 

 great as measured by the bird's power of flight, 

 and after a period of comparative silence the 

 bird would suddenly reappear and rouse the 

 very echoes with its inspiring song, " Music, 

 good music, all day!" I say "comparative 

 silence," for silence absolute does not occur. 

 We have but to consider the needs of the birds 

 and they will make return of the best they have 

 to offer, their songs. There are wrens in my 



