114 THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 
Behind me a redbird was whistling (car- 
dinal grosbeak, I have been accustomed to 
eall him, but I like the Southern name bet- 
ter, in spite of its ambiguity), now in eager, 
rapid tones, now slowly and with a dying 
fall. Now his voice fell almost to a whis- 
per, now it rang out again; but always it 
was sweet and golden, and always the bird 
was out of sight in the shrubbery. The 
orange-trees were in bloom; the air was 
full of their fragrance, full also of the mur- 
mur of bees. All at once a deeper note 
struck in, and I turned to look. A hum- 
ming-bird was hovering amid the white 
blossoms and glossy leaves. I saw his 
flaming throat, and the next instant he was 
gone, like a flash of light, — the first hum- 
mer of the year. I was far from home, and 
expectant of new things. That, I dare say, 
was the reason why I took the sound at first 
for the boom of a bumble-bee ; some strange 
Floridian bee, with a deeper and more me- 
lodious bass than any Northern insect is 
master of. 
It is good to be here, I say to myself, and 
we need no tabernacle. All things are in 
harmony. <A crow in the distance says 
