The Birds’ Calendar 
and quiet pool. It lingers about the orchard 
like a benediction of Nature, and when it is 
gone, its memory remains as immaculate and 
suggestive as its own cerulean color. 
Objects which manifest themselves through 
the different bodily senses do not seem to stand 
upon any comparable basis, but science is be- 
ginning to show a marvellous unity in this re- 
spect, and the correlation of motion and heat, 
which once would have been deemed an absurd- 
ity, is now evident enough. Fancy sometimes 
sees what science later proves, and if objects of 
sight and hearing shall likewise be shown to 
have an essential force in common, it may 
some time be no surprise to detect the ethereal 
warble of the bluebird melting into that most 
spirituelle of all colors, the vanishing violet. 
Of all the more pretentious bird-songs I have 
ever listened to, that of the purple finch seems 
the most virile, gladsome, and melodious: as 
gushing as that of the goldfinch, but less senti- 
mental; vigorous and not satiating ; not form- 
less in modulation, but with a piquant rhythmic 
phrase, a tripping measure that instantly catches 
the ear and stirs the blood, a genuine and de- 
lightful ‘‘invitation to the dance.’’ During 
the first few days of my country-life they were 
234 
