192 WILD SCENES AND SONG-BIKDS. 



that sang a cheering song from out the primeval forests here 

 unto your fathers. The wolves had howled their greeting in 

 chorus to the wintry winds, but the gentle salutation of the 

 "Wood Thrush came, the earliest harbinger of Spring and 

 hope. Seeming as though the spirit of solitude that had so 

 long infused those hoary aisles with harmony, of whispering 

 boughs, now clothed its daedal hymn in voice most meet for 

 human ear, and came in that plumed form to bid the weary- 

 wanderers welcome to the new empire nature yielded. What 

 a welcome ! Conquerors never found such. A melody that 

 haunted every shade, and filled the ear of silence, where, 

 deep within, she leaned upon her mossy couch to listen 

 touched their rude hearts with its tender spell, and fired 

 their souls with loftier daring ; for that clear, loud and mel- 

 low minstrelsy was to them as the first fresh song of free- 

 dom on a new-found earth. Was not the little bird then a 

 comforter to these, the hardy pioneers of freedom ? Their 

 stout souls found fittest inspiration in its real voice, for actual 

 deeds that have lived after them in honor. Above the turmoil 

 of their rough struggle with the elements, the savage beasts 

 and more ferocious savages, that gentle song rose ever in its 

 wild and sweet recall to win the soothed Passions back to 

 peace and calm repose. Men, however stern and embittered 

 by unceasing conflict, do not easily get away from the refin- 

 ing spell of music, and notes such as those of the Wood 

 Thrush that fill the common air like sun-beams will search 

 the clefts of these rugged natures as do those same suix-beams 

 when they pierce ice-mailed cliffs to find the Alpine Eose 

 hidden there, and glow in blushes on its tender cheek. There 

 is a soft spot, even in the rough hunter's heart, and the en- 

 chantment of that song will reach it somewhere, in the drear, 

 deep solitudes of pathless wilderness, all unaware, and then 

 the warm tears welled up with his yearnings, will leave him 

 humanized again and is not the little bird a comforter to 

 him? 



Aye, and it has been the angel to the weary and way-far- 



