Music of the Wild 



so real as these, that are reality. There is no 

 background so perfect as giants of the forest de- 

 veloping from the beginning; no middle distance 

 so beautiful as these plumes of wild rice sweeping 

 the sky, these waving flags and rushes, this riot of 

 red and yellow, white and blue flower faces; no 

 foreground so rare as this mass of growing leaves 

 and lily pads that shade off into the black, un- 

 fathomable water. There is no still life to sur- 

 pass in grandeur the upheavals of nature in a tem- 

 pest. There are no subjects more picturesque than 

 stilt-legged waders that stand motionless by the 

 hour or rise on wide wings and with trailing legs 

 make nature's picture complete by sailing slowly 

 across it. And the breath of muck-ladened air, 

 touched with the resin of pines, heavy with the 

 perfume of pollen, pungent with the tang of 

 mint, this is atmosphere for hunger of which 

 the nostrils may wither; but whose brush shall re- 

 produce it? 



Always there is the call of the music; the best 

 in the wide world, the spontaneous, day long, night 

 long song of freedom and content. From a mil- 

 lion gauze-winged musicians, from the entire 

 aquatic orchestra singing to the accompaniment of 

 the pattering rain, from the killdeer's call trailing 

 across the silver night, from the coot waking the 

 red morning, from the chattering blackbirds of 

 golden noon, from the somber-robed performers of 

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