WAYSIDE RAMBLES. 



13 



short distance down the hollow a song-sparrow 

 thrummed his harp, while a cooing dove lent her 

 dreamy threnody to the wayside trio. Although 

 engaged in the prosaic act of eating my luncheon, 

 I breathed in an atmosphere of poetry and romance, 

 and half expected a company of water-witches and 

 dryads to leap upon the greensward before me 

 and dance to the music of bird and brook. A 

 pagan I am not, — at least, such is my hope ; but 

 moods subjunctive sometimes seize me when I do 

 not blame the Greeks — aye, rather, when I praise 

 them — for peopling the woods with Pan and his 

 retinue ; for I feel the influence of a strange, 

 mystical, and more than impersonal presence. 



Yes, one's dreams sometimes take on a specula- 

 tive cast, even on a day that seems to be "the bridal 

 of the earth and sky." In this unfrequented spot 

 the birds sing their sweetest carols, be there a human 

 ear to hear or not. Do they sing merely for their 

 own delectation, these little creatures of a day? 

 Is there not far too much sweetness wasted on the 

 desert air? Would there not be more purpose in 

 Nature could these dulcet strains be treasured in 

 some way, so that they might be poured into man's 

 appreciative ear? Why has Nature made no pho- 

 nographs?' Wherefore all this waste of ointment? 

 Does Nature encourage the habits of the spend- 

 thrift? I recall a summer day when I strolled 

 along a deep, lonely ravine. It was at least a mile 

 to the nearest human dwelling. Suddenly a clear, 

 melodious trill from a song-sparrow's lusty throat 



