My Elm-Tree Oriole. 129 



until every closet was burdened with cherries, 

 canned, pickled, and preserved, and then the un- 

 used fruit finally fell from the tree in such quan- 

 tities that the grass about the tree-trunk was 

 destroyed. The truth was, we had fed the birds 

 and the birds had fed us, and more, they had 

 entertained us. They had sung whenever we 

 appeared, and through that summer there was 

 not a moment when, wearied of the nagging of 

 an exacting world, we could not turn to the birds 

 of the door-yard and be soothed by " Music, 

 good music, all day !" 



All birds are a delight to both the eye and 

 ear. I know of no one that is ugly when in 

 its proper place. I know of no one that is 

 discordant when waking the echoes of its own 

 home. The dull brown diver of the mill-pond 

 is a sorry spectacle when waddling over the 

 ground in search of water, but the moment that 

 element is reached all this bird's awkwardness 

 disappears. The herons and bitterns, as they 

 rise from the marsh in anxious haste, seem only 

 desirous of escape, and are merely a jumble of 

 illy-directed wings and legs ; but settled to 

 rhythmic flight, their movements in the upper 

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