To Mountain Tarn 



The afterglow rose from beneath the water, and 

 came up over the hill. The birds flew to their 

 roost. To rest ? Not quite yet. Rather, to 

 spend the liveliest and noisiest quarter of an 

 hour. In a mixture of flight note and song, they 

 all give tongue together. There is no method, 

 only the desire to get enough of sound out. Not 

 music, neither is it discord. It is noise ; pleasant 

 enough, but unmistakable. 



Each night they break forth in this way, about 

 this time. A most strange vesper, to be gone 

 through, just before the light within and without 

 is turned down, and the inmate of the feathery 

 tent puts head under cover and goes to sleep. It 

 is hard to tell what stirs them. Unaided in- 

 cursions from the human standpoint, into bird 

 psychology, are usually unprofitable. Far better 

 to make one thing interpret another. If not con- 

 clusive, it is as near the truth as we are likely 

 to get. 



A wonderful interest is in the suggestiveness. 

 Sidelights are often better than direct lights, and 

 always more charming. Is not the brightness of 

 the setting the most dazzling of the day, and the 

 afterglow clearer than the hour before sundown ? 

 This rude, indefinite interpretation runs through 

 all nature. 



When the concert or chorus is at its loudest, 

 the scattered voices are sounding. As the band 

 of linnets are noising, for all they are worth, the 



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