MAY 



Again and again the sounds fell on my ear, and 

 as often I endeavored to obtain a view of the 

 singer ; but he was in the thick of the upper 

 branches, and I looked for him in vain. How de- 

 licious the music was ! a perfect lullaby, drowsy 

 and restful ; like the benediction of the wood on 

 the spirit of a tired city-dweller. I blessed the un- 

 known songster in return ; and even now I have 

 a feeling that the peculiar enjoyment which the 

 song of the black-throated green warbler never fails 

 to afford me may perhaps be due in some measure 

 to its association with that twilight hour. 



TOBREY: Birds in the Bush. 



JOHN JAMES AUDUBON, 1780; THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY, 

 1825. 



Near at hand, upon the topmost spray of a birch, 

 sings the brown thrasher or red mavis, as some 

 love to call him all the morning, glad of your 

 society, that would find out another farmer's field 

 if yours were not here. While you are planting 

 the seed, he cries, " Drop it, drop it, cover it up, 

 cover it up, pull it up, pull it up, pull it up." . . . 

 You may wonder what his rigmarole, his amateur 

 Paganini performances on one string or on twenty, 

 have to do with your planting, and yet prefer it 

 to leached ashes or plaster. 



THOREAU: Walden. 



