14 



IN BIRD LAND. 



rippled through the stillness, making my pulses 

 flutter. Here, doubtless, the little Arion had sung 

 his roundels all summer long, and perhaps I had 

 been the only person who had heard him, and then 

 I had caught only a few tantalizing strains — simply 

 enough to give a taste for more. Why was the 

 peerless triller apparently burying his talents in this 

 soHtary haunt? 



It may be true of bird song, as of the recluse 

 flower, that " beauty is its own excuse for being ; " 

 but I am not ashamed to record my confession of 

 faith, my creed, on this matter ; not my dreamy 

 cogitations with ifs and mayhaps. There is a divine 

 ear which catches every strain of wayside melody, 

 and appreciates it at its true value. Thus, no beauty 

 or sweetness is ever lost, no bird or flower is really 

 an anchorite. A bird may flit away in alarm at the 

 approach of a human intruder, and may not lisp a 

 note until he is well out of the haunt ; but the same 

 songster will unconsciously pour his dithyrambs all 

 summer long into the ear of God. Nature was not 

 made for man alone ; it was also made for its Cre- 

 ator. Never has the brown thrasher sung with such 

 enchanting vigor and abandon as he did the other 

 day at the corner of the woods when he thought no 

 human auditor within ear-shot. He was Singing for 

 God, albeit unconsciously. 



Tt is high time to get back to my waysiding, if I 

 may coin a word. You must go to an out-of-the- 

 way resort, far from the din of loom and factory, to 

 feel the quaint, delicate fancy of Sidney Lanier's 

 lines, — 



