In Defence of Desolation. 175 



out and hear what the birds say of them, and 

 you will find the world less black than you had 

 painted it. 



Even the little brown tree-creeper does not 

 feel necessitated to keep on the leeward side of 

 the tree-trunks, though wind and snow and even 

 hail conspire to dislodge it It squeaks its sat- 

 isfaction, and while it held on, though a stiff 

 breeze was blowing, I saw the plucky bird draw 

 a worm from a cranny in the bark : swallowing 

 its prey, it snapped its beady eyes at me and 

 squeaked a suggestive " Good-morning" as it 

 hurried away. That bird never missed the sun- 

 shine. The day was not so bad that it might 

 not be worse ; and if birds are satisfied, why 

 not ourselves ? 



A dead tree, stricken in its prime by lightning, 

 is as nearly typical of desolation as any object 

 I have ever seen. I will never believe that such 

 things ought to be. But the dead and decaying 

 hickory gave rise to fewer gloomy thoughts 

 when a woodpecker came and beat in a rhyth- 

 mic way that was akin to music. Mere noise, 

 perhaps you insist ; but there is method in it, 

 something lacking at times in in-door chatter. 



