ioo BIRD-LAND ECHOES. 



rich, as cloying, as the fruit of the famous tree. 

 But among the lilacs lining the path to the spring- 

 house is, perhaps, the place that I love best to hear 

 these thrushes ; for, however grand the music, how- 

 ever perfect the melody, however complete every 

 requirement that science demands, is not the charm, 

 the subtle essence that reaches the heart, due to the 

 thoughts that well up within us as we listen ? Can 

 we, in fact, entertain a thought of music wholly free 

 from association ? Is it not mere sound if it reaches 

 no farther than the ear? To me the song of the 

 wood-thrush is an invitation to dream, when it does 

 not unlock the door of the dead years and recall 

 the ghosts ; but this is not the place for autobiography. 

 Given a dewy evening in early June, when freshness 

 is stamped upon every living thing ; given the color 

 of the season's brightest blossoms and the scent of 

 its choicest odors ; given that mysterious purple 

 light that fills the whole earth at the close of day, 

 and with these the songs of many thrushes, and there 

 remains no trace of harshness in the world. The 

 thorns are dulled ; the angles rounded off; we listen, 

 for the time at peace, as if the dross of our imperfect 

 selves had been taken away. 



Incomprehensible as it may seem to intelligent 

 people, there are still those who maintain that flow- 

 ers are made beautiful to please man, and that birds 

 sing for his delectation alone. Such rubbish is 

 really unworthy of notice ; but I would like to ask, 

 if this be so, why it is that the best music is heard 

 and the most beautiful flowers bloom where some- 



