NATURE'S ORCHESTRA. 



How sweet when the sun sinks over the hills 

 To list to the sound of the rippling rills : 



The murmuring brooks, the sighs of the trees, 

 The wail of the forest, seem symphonies : 



The voice of the wind, the songs of the bird — 

 God's instrumentation — how oft have I heard ! 



Renowned in the art of musical ways, 

 The robin the first violin part essays ; 



The bluebird plays second — great is his art, 



For he wrings from his strings the songs of the heart. 



Then stillness reigns king, till out of the hush 

 We hear the viola — the song of the thrush. 



Off in the fields where the grain is yellow 

 The meadowlark tunes his voice, the cello ; 



On a fallen tree in the stream's embrace, 



A wild goose sits squawking the double bass ; 



The wooddove is chanting like soft-keyed lute 

 Afar in the forest the strains of the flute. 



The tones of the oboe are sweet to me — 

 And list ! 'tis the whippoorwill's melodic. 



When clarionet echoes around me I hear, 

 I know that the catbird is visiting near. 



The raven, bird of ill omen by lot, 

 Tuneth his voice to the notes of fagott ; 



Then, cleaving the air like a sword, comes the note 



Of the crow — 'tis the trombone that sounds from his throat. 



The owl, wise but blinded, sleeps in the morn ; 

 When darkness returns he liooteth the horn. 



The sounds of the tympanies seldom fail 



To tell me that woodpeckers dwell in the vale. 



And last but not least, midst the twitter and hum. 

 The partridge gives forth the roll of the drum. 



