Wb Bift on #e QRo&ite 



less solitaire sang. The hermit thrush seems to 

 suppress one, to give one a touch of reflective 

 loneliness; but the solitaire stirs one to be up 

 and doing, gives one the spirit of youth. In the 

 solitaire's song one feels all the freshness and 

 the promise of spring. The song seems to be 

 born of ages of freedom beneath peaceful skies, of 

 the rhythm of the universe, of a mingling of the 

 melody of winds and waters and of all rhythmic 

 sounds that murmur and echo out of doors and 

 of every song that Nature sings in the wild gar- 

 dens of the world. I am sure I have never been 

 more thoroughly wide awake and hopeful than 

 when listening to the solitaire's song. The world 

 is flushed with a diviner atmosphere, every ob- 

 ject carries a fresher significance, there are new 

 thoughts and clear, calm hopes sure to be real- 

 ized on the enchanted fields of the future. I 

 was camping alone one evening in the deep soli- 

 tude of the Rockies. The slanting sun-rays were 

 glowing on St. Vrain's crag-crowned hills and 

 everything was at peace, when, from a near-by 

 treetop came the triumphant, hopeful song of a 

 solitaire, and I forgot all except that the world 



*54 



