MAY 



II 



The wood thrush launches forth his evening 

 strains from the midst of the pines. I admire 

 the moderation of this master. There is nothing 

 tumultuous in his song. He launches forth one 

 strain of pure, unmatchable melody, and then he 

 pauses and gives the hearer and himself time to 

 digest this, and then another and another at suit- 

 able intervals. Men talk of the rich song of other 

 birds, the thrasher, mockingbird, nightingale. 

 But I doubt, I doubt. They know not what they 

 say. There is as great an interval between the 

 thrasher and the wood thrush as between Thomson's 

 " Seasons" and Homer. 



THOREAU: Summer. 

 12 



One sometimes seems to discover a familiar wild 

 flower anew by coming upon it in some peculiar and 

 striking situation. Our columbine is at all times 

 and in all places one of the most exquisitely beauti- 

 ful of flowers ; yet one spring day, when I saw it 

 growing out of a small seam on the face of a great 

 lichen-covered wall of rock, where no soil or mould 

 was visible, a jet of foliage and color shooting 

 out of a black line on the face of a perpendicular 

 mountain wall and rising up like a tiny fountain, 

 its drops turning to flame-colored jewels that hung 

 and danced in the air against the gray rocky sur- 

 face, its beauty became something magical and 

 audacious. 



BURROUGHS: Riverby. 



