BIRD-LAND ECHOES. 



CHAPTER I. 



THE INSPIRING SPARROWS. 



I STAND tiptoe upon the edge of the morning 

 and overlook an unawakened world. The old 

 oaks are dimly gray as dungeon walls. The prowl- 

 ing opossum and wily weasel have long since finished 

 their nightly rounds and every flying squirrel is asleep 

 in his home-tree. It is neither night nor day, but 

 those intervening moments when we fancy there is a 

 hush before the new activities commence. A spar- 

 row yawns as I brush against its roosting-place, and 

 a drawling chirp dribbles from its beak. There is 

 no repetition of the sound, and doubtless the bird's 

 head is again under its wing. For once I am ahead 

 of time, and arrange my plans, but am cut down in 

 my pride by a robin, as usual, that has stolen a 

 march on me, and now his ringing cry struggles 

 earthward through the misty air. The bird is 

 as yet a mere matter of sound, and eyes go for 

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