86 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



This love of home, of birthplace, bridges over a 

 thousand physical differences between these 

 feathered creatures and ourselves. We forget 

 their expressionless masks of horn, their feath- 

 ered fingers, their scaly toes, and looking deep 

 into their clear, bright eyes, we know and feel a 

 kinship, a sympathy of spirit, which binds us all 

 together, and we are glad. 



Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, 

 And these fair sights of its sunny days, 



Are only sweet when we fondly listen, 

 And only fair when we fondly gaze. 



There is no glory in star or blossom 



Till looked upon by a loving eye; 

 There is no fragrance in April breezes 



Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BBYANT. 



