EROW. 



HOURS OF SPRING. 



It is sweet on awaking in the early morn to listen to 

 the small bird singing on the tree. No sound of voice 

 or flute is like to the bird's song ; there is something in 

 it distinct and separate from all other notes. The throat 

 of woman gives forth a more perfect music, and the 

 organ is the glory of man's soul. The bird upon the 

 tree utters the meaning of the wind — a voice of the 

 grass and wild flower, words of the green leaf; they 

 speak through that slender tone. Sweetness of dew 

 and rifts of sunshine, the dark hawthorn touched with 

 breadths of open bud, the odour of the air, the colour 

 of the daffodil — all that is delicious and beloved of 

 spring-time are expressed in his song. Genius is nature, 

 and his lay, like the sap in the bough from which he 

 sings, rises without thought. Nor is it necessary that 

 it should be a song ; a few short notes in the sharp 

 spring morning are sufficient to stir the heart. But 

 yesterday the least of them all came to a bough by my 

 window, and in his call I heard the sweet-briar wind 

 rushing over the young grass. Refulgent fall the golden 

 rays of the sun ; a minute only, the clouds cover him 



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